5"  -^^^ -■■'■.wr8iT-T7.TT?-'v^'  T'-'^^-'y^r'^^';^'-  =;^'f»-^*^i^^^i^ 


i  UNIVERSITY  OF  ILLINOIS 

LIBRARY     '■■■ 


Class  -       Book  Volume 

""""''Remote;  storage 


! 


/ 


Return  this  book  on  or  before  the 
Latest  Date  stamped  below.  A 
charge  is  made  on  all  overdue 
books. 

U.  of  I.  Library 


JUL   17"3] 


?■% 


vvv^^  AN^ 


r 


Itl48-S 


) 


MISS  NJNCE  O'NEIL 


From  a  Sketch  by 
/.  B.  Hazclton 


FIRES    OF 
ST.     JOHN 


A       DRAMA       IN       FOUR       ACTS 
FROM      THE      G   E   R   MAN      OF 

HERMANN      S U D E R M A N N 

Author      of      *'  M  a  g  d  a  ,''        "The       Joy 
of    Living,'*      "Sodom's     End,"     Etc. 

AS      PRESENTED       FOR      THE       FIRST       TIME 

ON      THE      AMERICAN      STAGE      IN 

BOSTON      ON     JANUARY 

TWENTY- FIRST 

NINETEEN 

HUNDRED 

& 

4 


Translated    and    Adapted 
by    CHARLES     SWICKARD 


BOSTON,   JOHN   W.   LUCE 
and   COMPANY,    1904 


COPYRIGHT     NOTICE     and      WARNING 

This  play  is  fully  protected  by  the  copyright  law,  all 
requirements  of  which  have  been  fully  complied  with.  In 
its  present  form  it  is  dedicateji  to  the  reading  public  only, 
and  no  performance  may  be  given  without  the  permission 
of  the  publishers,  owners  of  the  acting  rights. 

IF     Copyright,  1903,  by  Charles  Swickard. 

IT     Copyright,  1904,  by  John  W.  Luce  and  Company. 

IT     All    rights    reserved.  ^  ^  ^  ci  e^  ^. 


k/^OTfT    O" 


'"^RAG^ 


:#^\ 


i  — 


I 

P  U  B  L  I  S  H  E  RS'       NOTE 


c 


t  This  translation  and  adaptation  of  "  Joh annisfeuer  " 
was  made  by  special  permission  from  Herr  Sudermann, 
and  is  the  only  authorized  English  version. 


%  By  arrangement  with  the  publishers,  Miss  Nance 
O'Neil,  who  first  produced  this  play  in  English,  as  here 
given,  will  continue  to  use  Mr.  Swickard's  adaptation  ex- 
clusively. 


<^ 


J  ^- 


83662 


FIRES    OF    ST.   JOHN 

WAS  FIRST  PRESENTED  IN  ENGLISH, 
IN  BOSTON,  MASSACHUSETTS,  ON 
JANUARY  TWENTY-FIRST,  1904, 
WITH     THE     FOLLOWING     CAST 


Mr.  Brauer    ....  Mr.  George  C.  Staley 

Mrs.  Brauer  ....  Mrs.  Charles  W.  Brooks 

XiERTRUDE Miss  Blanche  Stoddard 

\  George  Von  Harten   .  Mr.  E.  J.  Ratcliffe 

An  old  Gypsy  Woman  .  Miss  Ricca  Allen 

Haffner Mr.  Norwell  McGregor 

Mr.  Paul Mr.  Frederick  Sullivan 

Katie Miss  Fannie  Cannon 

and 

Marie Miss  Nance  O'Neil 


CAST  OF  CHAEACTEES 

Mr.  Brauer Proprietor  of  a  large  country  estate 

Mrs.  Brauer    His  wife 

Gertrude Their  daughter 

>^      George  Von  Harten. Their  nephew 

An  old  Gypsy  Woman 

Haffner .Assistant  Pastor 

Mr.  Paul Overseer 

Katie Housekeeper 

Servant  Girl 

and 
Marie A  Foundling 

Time  of  action,  about  1880 

Place  of  action,  Pomerania   {Prussia) 


THE  FIRES  OF  ST.  JOHN 


ACT  ONE 

Breakfast-room  at  the  Brauer  residence.  The  back 
wall  is  formed  by  three  glass  doors,  separated  by 
marble  pillars.  Behind  this,  the  veranda  is  visible y 
and  balustrade,  hung  with  fine  rug,  and  stairs, 
leading  into  the  garden.  The  glass  doors  have 
■practical,  solid  wooden  shutters,  with  bars.,  fast- 
ening inside.  Doors  R.  and  L.  Large  table  C. 
with  breakfast  laid  Front,  to  the  left,  sofa^  table 
and  easy-chair.  To  the  right,  sewing-machine, 
and  basket  filled  with  table-linen.  Old-fashioned 
photos  and  engravings  on  walls.  Otherwise^ 
well-to-do  family  home. 

Time  of  day:  Morning. 

[Gertrude  busy  at  breakfast-table \ 

Brauer. 
\EnUrs  with  Paul,  from  R\     Confound  it !     Every- 
thing seems  to  go  wrong  this  morning ! 

\Throws  his  cap  on  chair,  angrily \ 

Gertrude. 
\Happily.\     Good-morning,  papa ! 


-.|€^ 


% 


THE  FIRES  OF  ST.  JOHN 


Brauer. 
Morning,  my  child.  Such  carelessness !  You  ought 
to  be  ashamed  of  yourself.  If  this  thing  had  happened 
earlier  in  the  season,  out  on  the  meadows  —  but  at  this 
time  of  the  year — !!!  Oh!  Confound  it  all,  any- 
way ! ! ! !  !     It  is  inexcusable !  !  ! 

Gertrude. 
What  is  the  matter,  papa  ? 

Brauer. 
The  black  cow  has  been  overfed.     But  of  course, 
when  Marie  is  not  about  to  look  after  everything,  things 
go  to  rack  and  ruin.     Well,  man,  what  excuse  are  you 
going  to  make  ? 

Paul. 
None,  Mr.  Brauer. 

Brauer. 
that's  the  most  sensible  thing  you  have  said  this 
mornfiifjp^  Here,  take  a  cigar   and  get  to  work;    but 
mind  !  send  for  the  veterinary  surgeon  at  once.     Have 
you  had  breakfast? 

^^  Paul. 

Yes,  sir  r""^ 

Brauer. 

Then  what  the  devil  are  you  waiting  for? 

Paul. 

I  —  I  —  I  wanted  to  excuse  myself,  and 

Brauer. 

[Impatiently,]     It's  all  right !  it^  all  right 

Pau 

[Remains  —  hesitatingly]     G^— 

Brauer. 

Well? 

112) 


morning ! ! 


Sii-.-i;:.-.,  ud 


f    TtWPPP^BSWl?^ 


V 


THE  FIRES  OF  ST.  JOHN 

Paul. 
I  —  I  have  something  else  to  tell  you 

Brauer. 
Then  out  with  it. 

Paul. 

[Wtf/t  a  glance  at  GERTRUDE.]     But 

Brauer. 
H'm !     Gertrude,  darling,  will  you  please  see  if  it  is 
still  threatening  rain? 

Gertrude. 
Yes,  papa  !  \Goes  out  on  the  veranda.] 

Brauer 
Well? 

Paul. 
[Conjidenttal/j'.]     The  old  hag  has  turned  up  again. 

Brauer.  ^ 

[A/armed.]     Wha The  devil  you  say !  If 'm  ! 

Who  —  who  has  seen  her? 

Paul. 
She  was  seen  begging  in  the  village — ^^rf^^^st  night, 
one  of  my  men  observed  her  creeping  steHnily  around 
the  sheds  yonder. 

Brauer. 
[Scratching  his  head.]     Yes,  yes  !    I  had  almost  for- 
gotten.    She  has  served  her  last  sentence  —  fully  five 
^^rs !  —  we  have  been  free   from  her  annoying  pres- 
|MHH||now,  she  has  returned.     Well,  what  does  she 

She  has  heard  her  daughter  is  about  to  be  married, 
she  says. 

[13] 


■  ¥ 


"m- 


THE  FIRES  OF  ST.  JOHN 

Brauer. 
\Laugks]      Her    daughter  ?    ha,    ha !     I    see !    no 
doubt  she  has  learned  of  Gertrude's  betrothal.     Well? 

and 

Paul. 
And  so  she  has  come  to  get  her  share  of  the  wed- 
ding-cake—  so   she  says;     but   she   dare   not   venture 
here. 

^  Brauer. 

Well,  I  should  advise  her  to  keep  a  respectful  dis- 
tance. Take  good  care,  Mr.  Paul,  that  she  ap- 
proaches no  one  of  this  house.  Do  you  hear?  No 
one.  I  will  see  the  constable  myself;  and  perhaps 
we'll  soon  get  rid  of  her  again.     Good-morning. 

Paul. 
Good-morning,  Mr.  Brauer.  \ExU.\ 

'"%r  Gertrude. 

\Enters.\     Shall  I  pour  your  coffee,  papa? 

Brauer. 
What?     My  little   one  looking  j^^r  the    breakfast, 
eh?     Can  yo%ido  all  that? 


Gertrud 


Oh  papa !  if  I  couldn't  do  even  that 

Brauer. 
But  Marie? 

Gertrude. 

Oh,  of  course  -*»-  not  as  well  as  she  —  you  nqMLhavi^ 
patience  with  me,  papa!  ,.  ,  ^ 

Brauer.      ^^P' 

Why   certainly,   my   pet!      {Embraces  her.\      And 
now,  let  me  see  —  how  many  days  are  you  left  to  me  ? 

[Hi 

w 


THE  FIRES  OF  ST.  JOHN 

Gertrude. 

Only  four  more  days,  papa. 

Brauer. 

Now,  you  rascal !  must  you  leave  me  ?  must  you  go 
and  marry,  eh  ?  must  you  ? 

Gertrude. 
But  papa,  dear,  it  is  all  your  own  arrangement ! 

Brauer. 
Of  course,  of  course !  what  is  a  poor  old  man  to  do  ? 
Have   you    seen    George  this  morning?      [GERTRUDE 
shakes  her  head]     Such  sloth !     He  does  nothing  but 
sleep,  sleep,  sleep. 

Gertrude. 
He   worked   until   very   late   last   night,   papa.     At 
dawn  this  morning  I  saw  his  light  still  burning;   and 
then  it  was  past  three  o'clock. 

Brauer. 
Yes,  I  must  admit,  he  is  diligent  and  industrious  — 
but   also   stubborn  —  damned   stubborn.     [The  last  is 
said  almost  to   himself.     Aloud.]     Has   mama    been 
down? 

Gertrude. 
No,  not  yet. 

Brauer. 
And  Marie?  has  she  returned? 

Gertrude.* 
She  arrived  by  the  early  morning  tram. 

Brauer. 
And  how  nearly  finished  is  the  lover's  nest,  eh  ? 

Gertrude. 
Only  one  more  trip  to  the  city,  I  believe  she  said. 

[■5] 


THE  FIRES  OF  ST.  JOHN 

Brauer. 
Well,  and  do  you  like  the  arrangement? 

Gertrude. 
I  don't  know,  papa  dear.     I  am  kept  entirely  in  the 
dark.     It  is  to  be  a  surprise  to  me.     Oh,  I  will  Hke  it 
very  much  indeed,  I  think. 

Brauer. 
And  are  you  happy,  my  pet? 

Gertrude. 
Oh,  papa,  dear,  I  sometimes  feel  as  if  I  didn't  de- 
serve all  this  happiness. 

Brauer. 
Well,   my  dear,   a  housewife   who    calls   these    soft- 
boiled  eggs,  certainly  does  not  deserve  such  happiness. 

Gertrude. 
[Embarrassed]       I   only  beiled  them  about  three- 
quarters  of  an  hour 

Ha,  ha,  ha,  ha  ! 

Gertrude. 

Oh,  I  beg  your  pardon,  papa,  I  will 

Brauer. 

There,  there,    I   was   only  joking ;    never   mind  it. 
And  Marie,  I  suppose,  is  taking  her  rest  now? 

Gertrude. 

If  she  only  would  do  so.  Papa,  you  must  compel 
her  to  take  a  rest.  No  one  can  endure  such  a  strain. 
One  day  she  is  poking  after  this  house,  and  the  next 
day  she  is  in  the  city,  furnishing  our  new  home ;  and 
the  nights  she  passes  on  the  train.     I  am  sure  she  will 

break  down. 

Brauer. 

Well,  well,  I  will  look  after  that. 

[i6] 


Brauer. 


;^1 


THE  FIRES  OF  ST.  JOHN 

Mrs.   Brauer. 

\Enters  from  L\     Good-morning! 

Brauer. 

Morning!     Well? 

Gertrude. 

VThrows    her    arms    around   her    mother \       Good- 
morning,  mama  dear ! 

Mrs.  Brauer. 
\C ares  sing  her.]       My  sweet !    my   pet !    only  four 

more  good-mornings,  and  then 

Gertrude. 
You  must  come  to  visit  me  soon,  mama  I 

Mrs.   Brauer. 
[Crying.]     Visit  ?  ah,  yes  ! 

Brauer. 
No  tears  now,  no  tears,  I  beg  of  you !     Tears  on  an 
empty  stomach  —  b-r-r-r-r-r,  that's  poison. 

Mrs.   Brauer. 
My  darling,  who  dressed  your  hair  last  night? 

Gertrude. 
The  housekeeper. 

Mrs.  Brauer. 
There !  I  knew  Marie  could  not  have  done  that. 
But  do  you  know  —  Marie  —  a  few  moments  ago  I 
opened  her  door  softly,  to  see  how  she  was  resting,  and 
found  her  still  fully  dressed,  just  as  she  came  from  the 
train,  seated  at  the  open  window,  a  book  in  her  lap,  and 
staring  out  into  space. 

Brauer. 
Well,  well,  well !     I  thought  her  passion  for  novels 
had  passed  away  long  ago. 

Mrs.   Brauer. 
I've  been  thinking  —  we  must  watch  her  more  closely. 

[17] 


THE  FIRES  OF  ST.  JOHN 

Brauer. 
She  needs  no  one  to  watch  over  her  !     She  is  well  able 

to  take  care  of  herself;   but  we  must  spare  her 

Mrs.  Brauer. 
But,  Henry,  just  now  —  three  days  before  the  wed- 
ding—  who  could  think  of  sparing  one's  self? 

Brauer. 

Well,  you  know  —  h'm 

Mrs.  Brauer. 
Henry,  you   know  how  I  love  the  girl;    but,  good 

gracious,  she  is  not  our  own  dear,  sweet  one 

Gertrude. 
Oh,  she  is  more  than  that,  mama  dear. 

Mrs.   Brauer. 
You  are  entirely  too  modest,  my  darling. 

Gertrude. 
Well,  just  imagine,  mama  dear,  she  was  going  to  be 

married  —  and  I  remained  at  home 

Mrs.   Brauer. 
Then  we  would  retain  our  sunshine,  our  consolation, 

our [Looking-  at  breakfast  table  with  a  questioning 

expression\     But,  children,  I  can't  understand 

Gertrude. 

What,  mama  dear? 

Mrs.  Brauer. 
Gracious!      Everything   is   so  —  so {Topsy- 
turvy indicated  by  action]     If  she  is  not  going  to  sleep, 

she  may  as  well  come  down  here 

Gertrude. 
[Laughingly  caressing  her  mama.]     There,  you  see, 
mama,  dear,  not  even  a  single  meal  can  you  eat  with- 
out her. 

[18] 


THE  FIRES  OF  ST.  JOHN 

[George  von  Harten  enters.] 

Brauer. 

Well,  at  last  you  have  aroused  yourself ;  you 

George. 
[Interrupts  kirn,  tapping  his  hand]      There,  softly, 
softly,  dear  uncle ;   don't  begin  scolding  so  early  in  the 
morning. 

Brauer. 
Don't  you   think   it's  pretty  near   time  to  call  me 
father,  my  boy? 

George. 
Not  until  after  the  wedding,  dear  uncle.  -   Good-morn- 
ing,  auhtie.       \Kissing  her  hand.]     Well,   little   one? 
[Kissing  her.] 

Gertrude. 
\Leans  on   him  lovingly \      My  George.      \Laughs 
suddenly.]      Oh,  -just  look  !   he  is  simply  covered  with 
hay! 

George. 
Then  you  may  make  yourself  useful  by  brushing  me 
off. 

Brauer. 
The  hayloft  seems  to  be  your  favorite  sleeping-place 
lately. 

George. 
Sleep?  Heavens!  who  could  sleep  in  this  weather? 
I  roam  about.  Lord  knows  where,  over  meadows  and 
fields.  Such  St.  John  days  I  !  I  It's  enough  to  drive 
one  mad.  The  days  never  seem  to  end.  Late  last 
night  I  was  sitting  in  front  of  my  window.  Said  I  to 
myself :  "  No  sleep  for  me  to-night,  until  that  cursed 
nightingale  runs  out  of  melody"  —  when  suddenly  a 
meadow-lark  announces  the  break  of  day  —  and  there, 

[■9] 


THE  FIRES  OF  ST.  JOHN 

it's  morning.  To  the  left,  the  twilight:  to  the  right, 
the  dawn,  peacefully  together.  From  glow  to  glow  a 
new  day  arises.  Children,  I  tell  you,  it  was  beautiful. 
Give  me  a  cup  of  coffee. 

Brauer. 
But,  tell  me!     Are  you  going  to  remain  here  now? 

George. 
Why,  certainly,  until  after  the  wedding. 

Brauer. 
But  the  propriety  of  such  a  thing 

Gertrude. 
[Imploringly.]     Oh,  papa  dear 

George. 
Its  immaterial  to  me.     Under  no  circumstances  do  I 
desire  to  offend  your  sense  of  propriety ;  but  then  I  will 
stay  down  at  the  inn,  as  the  nearest  place. 

Brauer. 
And  in  the  morning  you  will  bring  us  the  house  full 
of  fleas. 

Mrs.   Brauer. 

But,  Henry 

Brauer. 

Well,  it's  so. 

George. 

If  you  will  allow  me  !  The  wedding  was  set  for  the 
twentieth ;  therefore  I  obtained  my  first  furlough  from 
the  nineteenth  —  and  I  trust  you  realize  that  I  can't 
change  the  dates  to  suit  myself.  I  arrived  on  the 
twentieth  — and  the  wedding,  of  course  —  it  was  post- 
poned. 

Mrs.   Brauer. 

But,  George  dear,  neither  your  home,  nor  anything 
else  was  ready. 

[20] 


THE  FIRES  OF  ST.  JOHN 

George. 
And  besides,  where  am  I  to  go?     My  own  home  is 
broken  up ;   Marie  has  had  everything  torn  up.     By  the 
way,  has  she  returned  ? 

Gertrude. 
[JVods.] 

Mrs.  Brauer. 
Why,  what's  the  matter?     Have  you  two  had  another 
quarrel  ? 

George. 
No,  certainly  not ;   but  I  should  not  have  allowed  the 
girl  to  make  a  drudge  of  herself  for  my  sake.     I  almost 
wish  I  had  remained  at  home. 

Gertrude. 
Why,  she  is  not  doing  all  this  for  your  sake,  but  for 
mine. 

George. 
Now  there,  don't  be  conceited. 

Mrs.   Brauer. 
[Caressing  her.\      I  think  she  has  cause  to  be  con- 
ceited. 

George. 
As  my  future  wife,  she  certainly  has  cause  to  be  that. 

Brauer. 
There,  there,  don't  you  overrate  yourself. 

George. 
I  don't,  dear  uncle ;   I  am  too  practical  for  that. 

Brauer. 
So,  so,  you  are  too  practical,  eh  ?  then  what  the  devil 
possessed  you  to  leave  this  piece  of  paper  on  my  desk  ? 
eh? 

-[21] 


^^ 


THE  FIRES  OF  ST.  JOHN 

George. 

Uncle,  I  beg  of  you,  don't  let  us  begin  quarreling  so 

early  in  the  day. 

Brauer. 

[Angry  still.\     Very  well,  but  what  does  it  mean? 

George. 

It  is  simply  a  statement  of  my  affairs.     I   am   a  free 

and  independent  man,  and  that  is  to  show  you  that  I  am 

not  only  willing  but  also  able  to  properly  support  my 

wife. 

Brauer. 

\Still  worked  up.]     But  I  tell  you 

Marie. 
[inters  R.]      Oh  —  pardon  me,  papa  —  good-morn- 
ing! 

Gertrude. 

[Throws  arms  around  her\     Marie  ! 

Marie  . 
[Kisses  her.\     My  darling  ! 

[She  goes  to  Brauer  and  kisses  his  hand\ 

Brauer. 

You  are  back  all  right,  I  see  !   Here,  here  !    [Puts  hand 

under  her  chin.]      Head   thrown  back,  I   say  —  why, 

what's  the  matter?  anything  gone  wrong  with  you,  eh? 

Marie. 
[  Uncertain.]     N  —  no  ! 

Brauer. 
[To  his  wife.]     Look  at  her  —  she  is  positively  livid. 

Mrs.   Brauer. 
What  is  the  matter,  my  child? 

Marie. 
Mama,  dear,  I  sat  up  all  night  in  the  train  and  have 
had  no  sleep  at  all. 

[22] 


THE  FIRES  OF  ST.  JOHN 


Brauer. 
And  how  much  longer  will  it  take  you 

Marie. 


Only  one  more  trip  to  town, — but  pardon  me,  papa, 

the  new  assistant  pastor  is  at  the  gate  and 

Brauer . 
Who? 

Marie. 
The  new  assistant  pastor. 

[Gertrude  snickers.] 
Brauer. 
[To  Gertrude.]     What  are  you  laughing  at? 

Gertrude. 
[Pu/Ung  at  Marie's  skirt  and  can  hardly  keep  from 
bursting  out  laughing.]     I  —  I  —  oh,  I  am  not  laugh- 
ing, 

Brauer. 
[To  Marie.]     But  what  does  he  want? 

Marie. 
He  says  he  does  not  wish  to  disturb  the  ladies  so  early 

in  the  morning,  and  asks  you  to  please  come  out 

Brauer. 
Nonsense  !   tell  him  to  come  in. 

Marie. 
Yes,  papa. 

George. 
Good-morning,  Marie. 

Marie. 
Good-morning,  George.  [Exit.] 

Brauer. 
Gertrude,  come  here.    Now  remember,  my  dear,  such 
conduct  is  not  at  all  becoming  to  a  full-grown  young 
lady. 

[23] 


THE  FIRES  OF  ST.  JOHN 

Gertrude. 
My  dear,  sweet  papa,  I  am  so  ashamed  of  myself  — 
I I'll  never  do  it  again  —  never.     But  it's  so  funny 

—  ha,  ha,  ha !  he  is  gone  on   Marie 

M  RS.   Brauer. 
My  dear,  remember  you  are  now  a  bride  and  it  would 

be  far  more  proper  to  say 

George. 

Smitten  with  her? 

Mrs.  Brauer. 
[Somewhat  reproachfully.]     George  !  !  ! 

Brauer. 

Sh,  sh  — silence! 

[During  following   scene,  Marie   noiselessly 
clears  off  the  table. \ 

Pastor. 
[Enters.]       I   should  not  have  dared   to  annoy  the 

ladies  at  this  early  hour,  if 

Brauer. 
[Laug-htngly.]       Eight  o'clock  is  not  so  very  early  in 
the  country,  my  dear  Pastor ;  you  will  soon  learn  that 
here. 

Mrs.   Brauer. 
And  how  is  the  good  old  pastor? 

Pastor. 

[Doubtfully  shrugging   his  shoulders.]       Well ! 

Mrs.   Brauer. 
[Alarmed]     He  is  not  worse,  I  hope? 

Pastor. 
At  the  age  of  eighty,  my  dear  lady,  one   cannot  be 
said  to  be  growing  stronger. 

[24] 


THE  FIRES  OF  ST.  JOHN 

Brauer. 
Ah,  I  see,  Pastor,  you  are  somewhat  of  a  philosopher. 
Will  you  take  something? 

Pastor 
You  are  very  kind.     A  good  glass  of  brandy  is  half 
the  morning  sun. 

Brauer. 
Now  that  is  a  manly  word,  Pastor. 

Pastor. 
Oh  !  thank  you  !    Your  health  !  [Drinks.] 

Brauer. 
Will  you  take  something,  George? 

George. 
No  thank  you,  uncle,  not  now. 

Mrs.   Brauer 
When  did  you  arrive,  Pastor? 

Pastor. 

Just  three  weeks  ago. 

Mrs.  Brauer. 
And  do  you  like  our  town? 

Pastor. 
Very  much  indeed,  thank  you.      I  find   the  whole 
world  beautiful ;   but  the  surroundings  here  are  excep- 
tionally so.     Yes,  this  place  to  me  seems  doubly  attract- 
ive, for  here  every  one    seems  smiling  and  happy 

Pardon  me.  Miss,  you  have  dropped  the  napkin. 

[Marie  smtlw£^/ydows  her  acknowledgment^ 

[Gertrude  exitSy  stifling  a  laugh\ 

Brauer. 
Pastor,  you  will  pardon  this  rudeness,  she  is  still  a 
child. 

[25] 


THE  FIRES  OF  ST.  JOHN 

Pastor . 

Oh,  certainly,  certainly ;  for  she  is  right.  I  have  not 
yet  been  able  to  overcome  my  old  tendency  to  play  the 
gallant  in  the  presence  of  ladies  —  and  in  this  frock  — 
I  know  —  I  must  look  somewhat  ridiculous. 

Brauer. 

Tell  me.  Pastor,  how  did  you  happen  to  obtain  this 
position  ? 

Pastor. 

Well,  you  see,  that,  too,  is  partly  connected  with  this 
coat.  There  were  four  of  us,  classmates  —  who,  after 
graduating,  were  eagerly  awaiting  the  call  to  save  the  sin- 
ful world  —  and  among  them,  myself  the  only  one  who 
was,  what  you  might  say,  in  fairly  good  financial  circum- 
stances. We  were  now  and  then  compelled,  first  one  and 
then  the  other,  to  present  ourselves  at  the  board  of  direct- 
ors —  and  as  a  consequence  my  coat  suffered  severely. 
Now  it  really  never  fitted  any  one  of  my  comrades 
and  at  my  suggestion  we  finally  purchased  a  coat,  that 
came  nearer  fitting  each  of  us,  striking  a  happy  medium, 
as  it  were,  to  every  one's  satisfaction.  Then,  about  four 
weeks  ago,  an  ex-fellow-student  —  the  curate  of  the 
cathedral — came  to  us,  with  this  information:  "Ye 
holy  men,  list  ye  to  me.  In  yon  Lithuanian  mountains 
lives  a  minister  of  the  gospel,  who,  on  account  of  his  ex- 
treme age  and  feebleness,  is  incapacitated  from  properly 
performing  his  duties.  And  as  there  are  four  of  you,  I 
propose  that  you  draw  straws  and  leave  it  to  chance  who 
shall  be  the  favored  one."  At  that  the  others  unani- 
mously declared :  "  No,  he  who  has  shared  with  us  his 
clothing  shall  be  the  favored  one  "  —  and  —  well,  here  I 
am  and,  I  fear,  not  half  as  pious  as  I  look. 

[26] 


THE  FIRES  OF  ST.  JOHN 

Brauer. 
Ah,  courage,  Pastor,  courage 


Pastor. 

Pray  do  not  think  that  I  am  ashamed  of  my  calling ; 
believe  me,  like  our  Lord  and  Master,  my  heart  aches 
for  suffering  humanity,  and  therefore  it  has  ever  been 
my  desire  to  follow  in  His  footsteps.  Besides,  it  was  my 
father's  wish.  You  must  know  my  father  is  a  well-to-do 
farmer — there  are  no  really  large  estates  in  the  lowlands 
—  but  he  has  considerable — yes,  I  might  say,  a  great 
deal  of  money  —  and  owing  to  my  early  surroundings, 
I'm  afraid  I  am  much  better  suited  for  a  farmer  than  a 
minister  of  the  gospel.  But  I  will  not  give  up,  and  con- 
tinue to  struggle  and  rid  myself  of  all  my  bad  habits. 
Your  health ! 

Brauer. 

Do  you  know,  Pastor,  I  am  beginning  to  like  you  ! 
Do  you  wish  to  remain  here  and  take  the  old  pastor's 
place  ? 

Pastor. 
I  really  would  like 

Brauer. 
Very  well,  my  vote  you  shall  have  ! 

Pastor. 

You  are  very  kind,  indeed.  With  such  a  position  I 
should  be  quite  content,  and  to  complete  my  happiness 

but,  by-the-bye,  the  object  of  my  visit  was,  really, 

the  bridal-sermon.    I  am  afraid  our  good  old  pastor  will 
not  be  able  now 

Mrs.  Brauer. 
Ah 

[27] 


THE  FIRES  OF  ST.  JOHN 

Brauer. 
[Simultaneous ly.\     Will  not  be  equal  to  the  exertion, 
you  mean;   ah — I  feared  as  much. 

Pastor. 
Therefore,  if  you  will  allow  me  —  unless  you  desired 

some  one  else 

Brauer. 

Pastor,  if  we  had  not  already  heard  you  in  the  pulpit 
I  would  deny  your  request,  point  blank,  as  you  are 
practically  a  stranger  to  us.  But  your  ways  and  senti- 
ments please  me,  and  therefore  —  what  say  you,  wife  ? 
\She  nods.] — And  you,  George? 

George. 

Oh,  I  don't  know ;  but  unless  I  am  very  much  mis- 
taken, there  is  already  a  great  deal  of  sympathy  be- 
tween us,  eh,  Pastor? 

Pastor  . 

Now  I  must  confess  that  is  rather  meaningless,  at 
least  so  far  as  I  am  concerned ;  for  mjy  sympathy  ex- 
tends towards  the  whole  world. 

George. 

At  any  rate  I  am  glad 

Pastor. 
[3^estmg-ly.]      Then    will    you    kindly    leave   us    for 
awhile?  I  desire  to  inquire  into  your  past  record. 

George. 
[SAakes  his  finger  laughingly^       With    pleasure,   if 
you  promise  not  to  be  too  severe  on  me.  \Exit\ 

Pastor. 
Now,  then,  with  your  kind   permission,  I  will  take  a 

few  notes 

Brauer. 

Certainly,  Pastor ! 

[28] 


THE  FIRES  OF  ST.  JOHN 

Pastor. 
This  young  gentleman,  your  nephew,  is  especially 
close  to  the  family,  is  he  not? 

Brauer. 
Correct ! 

Pastor. 
Pardon  me,  but  may  I  ask  in  what  way  ? 

Brauer. 
I  will  tell  you.  Pastor.     It  was  in  the  year  '6"/,  when 
we  had  here  in  East  Prussia,  a  terrible  drought  —  a  year 
of  distress  and  —  do  you  remember  anything  about  it? 

Pastor. 
Very  little,  as  I  was  then  still  quite  young. 

Brauer. 
Ah,  it  was  terrible  !  Potatoes  and  fodder  rotted  be- 
fore ripening.  Of  wheat  and  rye  hardly  a  trace.  We 
farmers,  I  tell  you  — !  Then  it  was,  when  my  brother-in- 
law,  the  husband  of  my  sainted  sister,  whose  estates 
were  in  the  neighboring  township  yonder,  realized 
one  day  his  financial  ruin  and  with  all  his  aristocratic 
pride  —  you  understand  —  he  saw  no  other  way  —  he 
resorted  to  the  pistol  —  he  committed  suicide. 

Pastor. 
And  the  —  your  sister,  still  lives  ? 

Brauer. 
Thank  God,  no  !   but  from  that  day 

.   Pastor. 
Pardon  the    interruption;  but  I   have   heard   your 
daughter,  Miss  Marie,  called  "  the  calamity  child  "   by 
some  of  the  villagers.     Has  that  any  connection  with 
this  year  of  distress  ? 

[29] 


THE  FIRES  OF  ST.  JOHN 

M  RS.  Brauer. 

And  you  didn't  know  that,  Pastor  —  how  she  came 
into  our  house  ?  Well,  during  that  same  terrible  winter, 
we  were  returning  one  night,  my  husband  and  myself, 
from  the  town,  where  we  had  at  our  own  expense  erected 
a  soup-kitchen  —  when  suddenly,  at  the  corner  of  the 
*  woods  yonder,  where  the  road  makes  a  sharp  turn,  our 
horses  shied  —  and  there,  in  the  middle  of  the  road,  we 
saw  lying,  a  woman,  with  a  child  pressed  closely  to  her 
bosom.  She  refused  to  stir  and  begged  us  to  put  her 
out  of  her  misery.  Of  course,  we  took  her  into  the 
sleigh  at  once  —  ah,  she  was  in  an  awful  condition 

Brauer. 

I  tell  you,  Pastor,  it  was  months  before  we  could  rid 
the  blankets  of  vermin. 

Mrs.   Brauer. 

And  the  child,  the  poor  little  thing !     But  after 

being  bathed  and  fed,  and  lying  there,  between  the  clean 
white  covers,  we  both  stood  over  its  bed  —  the  little 
thing,  with  its  pinched  face,  laughed  at  us  and  stretched 
out  its  tiny  hands  —  my  husband  said  to  me :  "  Wife,  I 
believe  this  is  our  share  of  all  this  sorrow  and  misery 
that  heaven  has  sent  us." 

Brauer. 

For  you  must  know.  Pastor,  that  our  own  daughter, 
Gertrude,  was  then  not  yet  born. 

Mrs.    Brauer. 

No,  not  until  thfee  years  later.     Well,  we  bought  the 

child  from  that  miserable,  drunken  woman,  in  proper, 

legal  form  —  determined  and  glad  to  get  rid  of  her,  for 

she  did  smell  so  of  gin,  I  could  not  endure  it  any  longer. 

[301 


THE  FIRES  OF  ST.  JOHN 

Brauer. 
That  is  what  the  worst  drunkards  in  these  parts  prefer 
to  brandy. 

Pastor. 
Unfortunately  !  !  ! 

Brauer. 

But  to  come  back  to  my  nephew 

Pastor.    = 
Pardon  me,  another  question.     What  became  of  the 
mother  ? 

Brauer. 

Ah,  that  is  a  bad  story  —  and  just  to-day 

Pastor. 

Yes 

Brauer. 
Oh  —  nothing,    nothing.       Anyway  —  that    woman 
really  did  return,  and  as  we  did  not  want  the  child  to  sec 
her,  we  gave  her  more  money.     Of  course  she  remem- 
bered that  and  so  finally  she  became  a  positive  plague. 

Mrs.   Brauer. 
Oh,   Henry,  I  have  often  thought  since,  perhaps  a 
mother's  heart  prompted  her 

Brauer. 
You  think  so,  eh  ?  Then  perhaps  a  mother's  heart 
also  prompted  her  to  steal  at  the  same  time  !  for  every 
time  she  honored  us  with  a  visit,  something  or  other 
disappeared,  until  I  grew  suspicious,  had  her  watched, 
she  was  caught  red-handed  —  and,  of  course,  a  long 
term  in  prison  was  the  result. 

Pastor. 
And  the  girl  —  does  she  know  or  suspect  anything 
at  all? 

[31] 


THE  FIRES  OF  ST.  JOHN 

Mrs.   Brauer. 
We  told  her,  her  mother  was  dead.     But  one  day  she 
really  did  see  her. 

Pastor. 
How  did  that  misfortune  happen  ? 

Mrs.  Brauer. 
It  was  on  her  confirmation  day,  just  as  the  girls  left 
the  church  in  a  body,  when  we  heard  a  cry.  What 
had  happened?  Why,  that  woman  had  been  lying  in 
wait  for  the  procession ;  when  suddenly  she  appeared, 
seized  her  child,  and  kneeling  before  her  in  the  road, 
passionately  covered  her  hands  and  feet  with  kisses. 

Pastor. 
[Skuddering]     Horrible!  !  !  !  !  ! 

Mrs.   Brauer. 
I  tore  the  child  from  her  arms,  of  course,  and  carried 
her  into  the  house.     We  had  to  make  some  kind  of  an 
explanation ;   a  drunken  vagabond,  I  told  her !   Did  she 
believe  it?  —  H'm?  — Then  she  fell  ill 

Pastor. 
And  how  is  it  now? 

Brauer. 
[Humorously .\      Why,  Pastor,  you  seem  very  much 
interested. 

George. 
{Enters.    Gertrude  follows  hint  in.]      I  presume 
I  am  pretty  well  done  by  this  time. 

Brauer. 
We  haven't  even  started  with  your  case.    The  pastor 
is  interested  in  something  of  far  greater  importance. 

[32] 


THE  FIRES  OF  ST.  JOHN 

Pastor. 
\With  meaning  and  moved. \      You  must  not  believe 
that,  Mr.  von  Harten ;  but  there  are  lives  whose  fates 

are  surrounded  "by  so  much  mystery \ivith  a  glance 

at  Marie,  who  enters  L.  with  package  of  linen  \ 

George. 
\Who  follows  his  glance.]       Yes,  yes,  you  are  right. 

Pastor. 
If   you  will   allow   me,  I  will   call  again  about  the 

sermon. 

Mrs.  Brauer. 

[Giving  him  her  hand.]       Pastor,  you  know  you  are 
always  welcome  in  this  house. 

Brauer. 

Give  my  regards  to  our  good  old  pastor.     Towards 
evening  we  will  see  him,  as  usual. 

Pastor. 

Oh,  I  had  almost  forgotten  !    He  desires  me    to  ask 

you  kindly,  should  you  again  favor  him    with    eggnog, 

to  please  add  a  little  more  sugar,  for  the  last  was  a  trifle 

tart. 

M  RS.   Brauer. 

Why,  of  course,  the  poor  old  soul. 

Pastor. 
Do  not  say  that,  madame;  for  when  the  time  has 
come  when  all  our  wishes  and  hopes  and  desires  are 
concentrated  upon  a  small  quantity  of  sweets,  our  suf- 
ferings are  near  the  end.  And  now,  adieu.  Miss  Marie, 
adieu. 

Marie. 
[Preoccupied.]     Adieu. 

[Pastor  exits,  accompanied  by  Brauer.] 

[Gertrude  enters\ 

l33] 


THE  FIRES  OF  ST.  JOHN 

Mrs.  Brauer. 
Don't  be  afraid  dear,  no  one  will  scold  you. 

Gertrude. 
Oh  mama,   I'm  so  ashamed  of    myself.      When  he 
arrived  he  seemed  so  jolly  —  and  now  —  I  am  sure  he 
is  offended. 

George. 
He  was  not  offended,  dear,  only  a  little  grave. 

Mrs.  Brauer. 
At  any  rate,  what  do  you  think  of  him,  Marie? 

Marie. 
{Glancing  up  from  her  work,   sorting  linen \       Of 
whom,  mama  dear? 

Mrs.  Brauer. 
Why,  the  new  pastor. 

Marie. 
Oh  mama,  my  mind  is  so  occupied,  I  hadn't  given 
him  a  thought. 

Gertrude. 
[Aside  to  GEORGE.]     Now  you  tell  her,  George. 

Marie. 
Grertrude,    how    about    our     manzanillo-tree  —  any 
blossoms  this  morning? 

Mrs.   Brauer, 
You  don't  mean  to  say  you  haven't  looked  after  that 
beloved  tree  of  yours  this  morning? 

Marie. 
I  have  had  no  time,  mama  dear. 

Gertrude. 
\To  George.]     Now  tell  her. 

[34j 


THE  FIRES  OF  ST.  JOHN 

George. 
Marie,  both  Gertrude  and  myself    insist,  that  you 
cease  this  endless  drudgery  for  our  sakes ;   it  isn't  right. 
[Marie,    humming ^   pays    no    heed — looks 

into  space.] 

Gertrude. 
See,  she  is  not  even  listening. 

Mrs.  Brauer. 
What's  that  you  are  singing? 

Marie. 
I  —  ?     Was  I  singing  ? 

Mrs.   Brauer. 
Well  then,  humming. 

Marie. 
Oh  yes,  last  night  at  the  station  I  heard  a  strange 
song  —  some  one  in  a  fourth-class  coach  was  singing. 
Listen.  [Sings.] 

"Zwirio  czenay,  zwirio  tenay  —  kam'mano  bernyczo  — 
Rid  wid  wil  dai  dai  —  Ne'r  mano  bernyczo." 

George. 
And  the  Lithuanian  text —  you  memorized  it  just  from 
hearing  it? 

Marie. 
Certainly. 

George. 
Well,  where  did  you  learn  all  that? 

Marie. 
Why,  I  have  always  known  it. 

George. 
And  could  you  translate  it  readily  ? 

[3Sl 


THE  FIRES  OF  ST.  JOHN 

Marie. 
Oh,  it  means  nothing,  really  —  [makes  one    or  two 
attempts\ — "  here  "  —  no  ! 

"  I  look  here  and  I  look  there  —  where  may  be  my  lover  ? 
Rid  wid  will  dai  dai  —  Nowhere  is  my  lover  !  " 

Brauer. 
\Enters  during  this,  unseen  by  her^  futs  arms  around 
her.       She   shrieks.]     There,   there  —  [caressing    her.] 
Patience,  my  darling,  some  day  you  will  have  one —  per- 
haps very  soon.     Why,  what's  the  matter,  dear? 

Marie. 
[Leans  on   hint  in  tearless  sobbing\     Oh,  you    have 
frightened  me  so  ! 

Brauer. 
What  is  the  matter  with  you  this  morning  ?    What  has 
happened  ? 

Marie. 
I  have  already  told  you,  nothing. 

Brauer. 
Tut,  tut !  something  has  gone  wrong  !  I  can  see  it  — 
and  now,  I  demand  that  you  tell  me  the  truth. 

Marie. 
Well,  then  —  yes  ! 

Brauer. 
What  is  it?     Come,  come,  out  with  it. 

Marie. 
Some  one  attacked  me. 

Brauer. 
Attacked  you? 

Marie. 
Not  far  from  here. 

Brauer. 
As  you  came  from  the  station  ? 

[36] 


THE  FIRES  OF  ST.  JOHN 

Marie. 
Yes. 

Brauer. 
Well,  I  never — but  everyone  around  here  knows  you 
and  your  character ;   how  did  he  look  ?  was  it  a  vaga- 
bond ? 

Marie. 

[Hesitatingly]    N — No.    It  was — a  gentleman 

Brauer. 
Did  he  lay  hands  on  you,  or  even  try  to  touch  you  ? 

Marie. 
No. 

Brauer. 
But  you  say  he  attacked  you  ? 

Marie. 
Attacked  me  —  yes  ! 

Brauer. 
You  mean  he  followed  you  ? 

Marie. 
Yes. 

Brauer 
How  far  ? 

Marie. 
As  far  as  the  gate,  which  I  opened  quickly  and  then 
he  disappeared. 

Brauer. 
{To   the   others]      Now,  what  do  you  say  to    that? 
[George   shrugs  his  shoulders]     There  is  something 
queer  about  it  all.     \To  Marie.]      And  that  is  what 
upset  you  so  ? 

Marie. 
Oh,  I  am  already  much  composed. 

[37] 


THE  FIRES  OF  ST.  JOHN 

Brauer. 
[Raises  her  head.]     Yes  —  you  look  it. 

Gertrude. 
Oh,  papa,  don't  torment  her  so. 

Brauer. 
Now,  then,  go  and  take  a  good  nap. 

Marie. 
Not  yet,  papa  dear,  I  can't.     I  must  speak  with  George 
first.     About  the  large  bookcase  —  I  really  don't  know 
where  to  place  it. 

Brauer. 
But  you  can  do  that  later,  can't  you  ? 

Marie. 
I  fear  I  might  forget  it. 

Brauer. 

Very  well ;  I  am  going  down  to  look  after  the  cow. 
Will  you  come,  wife  ? 

Mrs.  Brauer. 

[Rising  and  -putting  up  her  handwork. \     Yes,  dear. 

Brauer. 
\To  Marie.]     And  one  thing  more, — don't  you  put 
your  foot  outside  of  the  gate  without  an  escort  here- 
after !     Understand  ?     Not  once  ! 

Marie. 
But  why  not,  papa  dear? 

Brauer. 
After  what  has  happened?     But  I   never  heard  of 

such  a  thing  —  never,  as  long  as  I 

Mrs.  Brauer. 
But,  Henry,  in  broad  daylight,   it  is  hardly  neces- 
sary  

[38] 


THE  FIRES  OF  ST.  JOHN 

Brauer. 
No  matter ;  I  have  my  reasons  for  that ;  besides  — 
well>  I'll  tell  you  later. 

Mrs.   Brauer. 
[In  passing  taps  MARIE  on  cheek.]     Now,  pet,  go  and 
take  a  good  rest.  [BofA  exit.] 

Marie. 
You  must  go,  too,  Gertrude  ! 

Gertrude. 
[PeevisA/jf.]     But  why  should  I  ? 

Marie. 
You  know,  dear,  your  future  home 

Gertrude. 
Ah,  yes ;  those  stupid  furnishingrs  !     Do  you  know, 
I  don't  think  a  wedding  half  so  much  fun  as  Christmas. 
Now  don't  be  long,  will  you?  [Exit.] 

[Pause.] 
George. 
Why  so  deep  in  thought,  suddenly? 

Marie. 
I  —  ?     Oh,  I  was  thinking.     I  was  picturing  to  myself 
that  cosy  little  nook,  your  corner  room  ! 

George. 

Marie,  dear,  how  can  I  ever  thank  you  for  all  the 

Marie. 
Don't  speak  of  it,  George,  for  I  take  great  delight  in 
having  the  furniture  moved  about ;  and  then,  I  say  to 
myself :   "  Here  is  where  they  will  take  their  tea,  and 

there  they  will  while  away  their  leisure  hours  "  —  so 

But,  what  I  meant  to  tell  you !  Yesterday  we  had  an 
accident — the  large  mirror  in  the  parlor  was  broken. 
I  know  it  portends  ill 

[391 


THE  FIRES  OF  ST.  JOHN 

George. 

What  care  I,  so  long  as  our  friendship  will  not  be 

broken. 

Marie. 

But  why  should  it? 

George. 
It  shall  never  be  my  fault,  Marie. 

Marie. 
Certainly  never  mine.     But  what  I  wanted  to  say, — 
I  had  the   large  mahogany  bookcase  repolished.     Is 
that  satisfactory? 

George. 
Anything  you  choose  to  do  is  satisfactory  to  me. 

Marie. 
[Hesttatzn^/y .]     And  then  —  I  must  tell  you,  George, 
something   important.     When  I  unpacked   the   book- 
case, I  found  a  blue  manuscript. 

George. 
[[/nsuspectmg:]     What  kind  of  a  manuscript? 

Marie. 
George,  you  must  not  leave  that  lying  around  —  not 
even  hidden  behind  the  books,  especially  now,  when 
you  take  your  wife  to  your  home. 

George. 
In  heaven's  name,  what  manuscript? 

Marie. 

I  believe  —  it  contains  some  poems 

George. 
You    believe  —  it    contains    some    poems.      I    have 
missed  it  since  early  last  winter ;    I  thought  I  had  lost  it. 
Marie,   now    tell    me    truthfully,   have    you    read    its 
contents  ? 

l4o] 


THE  FIRES  OF  ST.  JOHN 

Marie. 
N  — no! 

George. 
Then  why  do  you  tell  me  not  to  leave  it  around  ? 

Marie. 
Well,  I  read  the  first  part,  and   had  begun  on  the 
second,  when  I  concluded  to  go  no  further. 

George. 
And  you  really  looked  no  further   than  the  first? 
Absolutely  no  further? 

Marie. 
No. 

George. 
Can  you  swear  to  that? 

Marie. 
I  can ! 

George. 
Then  swear ! 

Marie. 
I  swear !     Are  you  satisfied  ? 

George. 
Yes,  thank  heaven !  But  you  must  not  imagine  for 
a  moment  that  the  book  contains  anything  I  am 
ashamed  of ;  on  the  contrary,  I  consider  it  so  sacred  I 
would  not  have  it  desecrated  by  a  stranger's  eye. 
About  four  years  ago,  something  occurred  within  me 
—  within  my  soul.  No  one  knows  —  no  one  could 
even  guess,  and  no  one  shall  ever  know. 

Marie. 
No  one?     Not  even  I? 

George. 

No,  not  even  you.     But  where  is  the  book?     Give  it 
to  me! 

[41] 


THE  FIRES  OF  ST.  JOHN 

Marie. 
[Turns  up  stage  and  takes  it  from  her  bosom.]     Here 

it  IS. 

George. 
How  shall  I  ever  thank  you  ? 

Marie. 
I  want  you  to  do  me  one  favor.     Will  you  promise 
me? 

George. 
If  it's  in  my  power,  certainly ! 

Marie. 

Then  I  must  first  confess  to  you.     A  few  moments 

ago,  when  papa  questioned  me,  I  deceived  him.     I  was 

attacked  last  night  —  yes  —  but  not  by  a  man,  but  by  a 

woman  —  a  Lithuanian  woman.     George,  that  woman 

was  my  mother ! 

George. 

But  I  understood  your  mother  was  dead. 

Marie. 

No,  no ;  that  is  not  so.  Not  one  of  you  ever  told 
me  the  truth.  On  the  day  of  my  confirmation  I  was 
waylaid  by  that  very  same  woman  —  I  cannot  have 
been  mistaken. 

George. 

Come,  tell  me,  how  did  it  happen  ? 

Marie. 

I  was  walking  along  quietly  —  'twas  already  dawning 
—  when  suddenly  a  gaunt  form  arose  from  the  ditch 
beside  the  road.  I  looked,  and  saw  before  me  a  miser- 
able beggarwoman,  who  called  out  to  me  in  a  trembling 
voice :  "  Marie  —  Madame  —  Daughter !  "  I  turned 
cold  in  fear  and  horror,  and,  unable  to  utter  one  sound, 
I  began  to  run ;  and  I  ran,  ran,  ran,  and  behind  me  I 

f42j 


THE  FIRES  OF  ST.  JOHN 

only  heard  her  agonizing  call :  "  My  Marie  —  my 
daughter !"  And  so,  I  ran  away  from  my  own  mother. 
And  now,  after  a  few  hours'  thought,  I  realize  I  did 
wrong.  I  must  see  her  and  speak  to  her,  and  learn 
from  her  own  lips  who  and  what  I  am ;  and  as  papa 
has  forbidden  me  to  leave  this  house  —  I  would  go  in 
spite  of  him,  but  I  have  a  fear —  I  beg  of  you,  Grcorge, 
dear,  go  to  her,  I  implore  you,  find  her  for  me  —  she 

cannot  be  far  away,  and 

George, 
And  then ? 

Marie, 
Then  bring  her  to  me,  into  the  garden,  or,  better 
still,  into  this  room  towards  evening,  when  papa  and 
mama  are  calling  on  the  old  pastor 

George. 
Marie,  I  cannot  do  that ! 

Marie. 
The  first  time  I  ask  a  favor  of  you  —  and  you  say 
you  cannot  do  it? 

George. 

Marie,  dear,  listen  to  me !  You  have  been  so  kind  to 
me  of  late  —  and  that  has  not  always  been  so ;  but  if 
you  had  sacrificed  for  me  even  more  than  your  own 
comfort  and  rest,  I  —  I  could  not  do  it  —  I  could  not 
deceive  your  father  and  mother,  for  I  fear  the  conse- 
quences. 

Marie. 

Then  can't  you  understand  that,  a  foundling  though  I 
am,  a  desire  might  come  over  me  to  see  my  own 
mother,  though  she  be  but  a  common  beggar  and  an 
outcast?     That  I  might  want  to  lay  my  head  on  her 

[431 


THE  FIRES  OF  ST.  JOHN 

shoulder  and  be  petted  and  fondled,  and  cry  myself  to 
sleep  on  mine  —  on  my  own  mother's  breast? 

George. 
Are  you  not  fondled,  are  you  not  petted  —  has  mama 
not  always  been  kind  to  you  ? 

Marie. 
Yes,  but  it  is  not  the  same  —  not  the  same.     Never 
have  I  felt  the  desire,  the  demand  within  me  for  my  own 
flesh  and  blood,  as  just  now. 

George. 
But  why  just  now? 

Marie. 
[Imploringly]     Because  my  heart  is  bursting.     Oh, 
George ! 

George. 
I  cannot.     I  dare  not  do  it ! 

Marie. 
Then  you  refuse  me  ? 

George. 
You  know  I  must !  ! 

Marie. 
Then  have  you  forgotten  what  took  place  in  there,  in 

your  heart,  four  years  ago  ? 

[Pause] 

George. 
Marie,  you  have  read  my  manuscript ! 

Marie. 
Yes,  I  read  it.     Will  you  do  it  now? 

George. 
Marie,  you  have  sworn  falsely !  !  ! 

[44] 


THE  FIRES  OF  ST.  JOHN 

Marie. 
[Shrugging  her  shoulders]     Will  you  do  as  I  ask  ? 

George. 
'Tis  well !     I  will  do  as  you  ask ! ! ! ! 

{Curtain. \ 


END   OF  THE  FIRST  ACT. 


[45] 


ACT  TWO 

The  same  scene  as  Act  I. 

[Marie,  seated^  with  some  linen  in  her  lap, 
at  the  sewing-machine,  looking  dreamily  out 
of  the  window  \ 

Housekeeper  Katie. 

[/«  door  R\ 

May  I  come  in,  Miss  Marie? 

Marie. 
Oh,  is  that  you  ?     Yes,  come  in  ! 

Katie. 
I  see  you  are  working  on  Miss  Gertrude's  wedding 
outfit.  How  beautiful,  fit  for  a  princess.  But  what  I 
wanted  to  ask  you :  Madame  has  given  me  the  menu 
for  the  wedding  feast,  and  as  to  fish,  it  calls  for  carp. 
Now  you  know  I  am  economical,  but  carp  —  common 

carp 

Marie. 
Why,  carp  is  a  very  fine  fish 

Katie. 
Oh  yes,  and  good  enough  for  —  say  —  your  wedding 
feast ;  but  not  good  enough  for  Miss  Gertrude. 

Marie. 
For  my  wedding  feast  even  carp  is  too  good. 

[46] 


-  •?■■ 


THE  FIRES  OF  ST.  JOHN 

Katie. 
Oh  no ;  carp  is  not  too  good  for  you,  though  it  may 
be  good  enough  —  and  do  you  know  I  will  prepare  a 
special  Polish  sauce  —  but  Miss  Gertrude — she  must 
have  deep  sea  fish.  Now  will  you  see  Madame  about 
that,  please? 

Marie. 
Very  well,  I  will  speak  to  mama  about  it. 

Katie. 
And  you  are  not  offended? 

Marie. 
Oh  no! 

Katie. 
For,  after  all,  you  know,  you  are  only  a  foundling. 

Marie. 
Oh  yes,  I  know. 

Katie. 
But  we  all  love  you,  Miss  Marie,  and 

Marie. 
Thank   you.     But    have  you  seen  Mr.  von   Harten 
this  morning? 

Katie. 
No,  I  have  not !  But  I  have  some  good  news  for  you 
—  the  assistant  pastor  has  fallen  deeply  in  love  with  you. 

Marie. 
Yes? 

Katie. 
And  he  is  going  to  ask  for  your  hand  ! ! !     I  always 
said  you  were  a  lucky  girl.     Just  think,  you  may  be  a 
St.  John's-bride. 

Marie. 
And  what  is  a  St.  John's-bride? 

I47l 


THE  FIRES  OF  ST.  JOHN 

Katie. 
Vou  don't  know  that,  Miss  Marie?  Well,  I'll  tell  you. 
It  is  written  in  the  new  seal  of  Solomonis:  "Who- 
ever shall  give  or  receive  their  first  kiss  on  St.  John's  eve, 
their  love  is  sealed  and  they  will  be  faithful  unto  death." 
So  it  is  written  in  the  new  seal  of  Solomonis. 

Gertrude. 
[Enter  C,  hands  behind  her^  with  bouquet.] 
Marie,  I  have  something  for  you.     No,  first  I  want 
Katie  to  leave  the  room.     Go  now,  go ! ! ! 

Katie. 
Oh,  I  am  going  —  I  am  going !!!!!!!!!  [Exit.] 

Gertrude. 
Shut  your  eyes  now !  [Marie  does  so,  as  Gertrude 
holds  bouquet  to  MARIE'S /«<:^.]     Now  what  is  it? 

Marie. 
The  tulip-tree !  the  first  blossoms  from  our  manza- 
nillo-tree !    It  blooms  —  it  blooms  ! ! !  [Burying  her  face 
in  the  flowers^ 

Gertrude. 
Are  you  glad,  Marie? 

Marie. 
Yes,  darling,  so  glad  ! ! !     Thank  you ! 

Gertrude. 
And  do  you  know  who  picked  them  ?  —  George  ! 

Marie. 

For  me? 

Gertrude. 
Why,  of  course,  for  you  ! 

Marie. 
He  —  did  this  —  for  me? 

[48] 


THE  FIRES  OF  ST.  JOHN 

Gertrude. 
He  would  do  even  more  than  that  for  me,  I  am  sure ! 

Marie. 
Oh  yes,  certainly !     But  where  is  he  now? 

Gertrude. 
I  don't  know ! 

Marie. 
Did  he  say  he  had  to  go  somewhere? 

Gertrude. 
Yes,  he  had  to  go  out  on  the  fields,  he  said  —  and 
that  was  quite  some  time  ago.     I  wanted  to  accompany 
him,  I  begged  and  begged,  but  he  flatly  refused  to  let 
me  go. 

Marie. 
[Breathing  heavily]     Oh  !!!!!!! ! 

Gertrude. 
I  don't  know  how  it  is ;  but  to-day  he  is  acting  so 
strangely.     Papa  has  asked  for  him  several  times  — 
and  do  you  know,  dear,  at  times  he  is  not  at  all  pleasant 
to  me ! 

Marie. 
But  why  should  he 

Gertrude. 
That's  just  it!  why  should  he?  Oh,  if  I  only  knew  — 
if  I  was  only  certain  he  loved  me  —  and  then,  another 
thing  —  I  don't  know  if  I  should  tell  you  —  I  have  a 
growing  fear,  some  other  girl  will  take  him  away  from 
me. 

Marie. 
[With  forced  laugh.]     Away  from  you,  dear?    how 
could  that  be  possible? 

[49] 


THE  FIRES  OF  ST.  JOHN 

Gertrude. 
Oh  yes,  you  may  laugh ;  but  at  times,  when  he  looks 
at  me,  I  see  a  strange  look  come  in  his  eyes.     Half 
affection  — ^  half  pity  —  and  I  don't  want  to  be  pitied  I 
Why  should  he?    Am  I  not  happy? 

Marie. 
[Caressing-  her.]     Yes,  dear ;  you  ought  to  be  very, 
very  happy. 

Gertrude. 
But  I  cannot  rid  myself  of  the  fear,  perhaps  he  really 
loves  another  and  is  only  taking  compassion  on  me ! 

Oh,  if  I  only  knew 

Marie. 
But,  my  darling 

Gertrude. 
For  you  see,  I  am  still  so  young  —  and  think,  how 
ill-mannered  I  was  only  this  morning !     I  was  so  sorry 
afterwards  —  but  I  do  love  to  laugh.     [Laughs\ 

Marie. 
[  With  strange  y  desperate  tone  of  voice. \     And  you  shall 
laugh  —  laugh  —  laugh  —  so  —  so !!!!!!! 

Gertrude. 
Mama,  too,  insists  that  my  love  for  him  is  only  that  of 
a  child  and  not  of  a  woman  and  a  bride ;  but  you  see 
she  would  rather  I'd  not  marry  at  all  and  so  remain  at 
home  with  her  all  my  life.  But  you  will  be  good  to 
her,  won't  you  ?     You  will  soon  be  her  only  one. 

Marie. 


I 


Why  yes ! 


Gertrude. 
[50] 


THE  FIRES  OF  ST.  JOHN 

Marie. 
I  shall  soon  know  whose  only  one  I  am ! 

Gertrude. 
What  are  you  saying? 

Marie. 
[As  George  enters]     There  he  is ! 

[Gertrude  runs  towards  him.      Marie  takes 
a  few  steps,  then  hesitates  and  stops] 

Gertrude. 
[Pulling  him,   as    she    runs    towards    him]      Oh, 
George ! ! !   [Then]     Confound  you ! 

George. 
[Reproachfully.]      Gertrude!  !!  !  !  ! 

Gertrude. 
[Crushed^     Why,  what  did  I  say  ? 

George. 
[Lovingly]     Now  listen  to  me,  little  one.     Such  lan- 
guage may  be  excusable  in  your  papa,  but  never  in 
my  bride. 

Gertrude. 
[Pouting]     Everything  I  say  seems  to  displease  you. 
You  never  find  fault  with  Marie!     You  can  go   and 
marry  her  !  !  ! 

George. 
Marie  does  not  want  to  marry  me. 

Marie. 
My  very  best  thanks,  George ! 

George. 
For  what? 

Marie. 
[Picking  up  bouquet]     For  this ! 

[51] 


THE  FIRES  OF  ST.  JOHN 

George. 
Oh,  don't  mention  it. 

Marie. 
Were  you  out  in  the  fields  ? 

George. 

Yes. 

Gertrude. 
Yes,  papa  is  angry  with  you,  too.     He  is  looking  for 

you ! 

George. 

Oh  yes  —  I  know !  Well? 

Marie. 
In  what  direction  did  you  go  ? 

George. 
I  have  been  everywhere. 

Marie. 

And  have  you  found ? 

Gertrude. 
What  was  he  to  find  ? 

George. 
Yes,  what  was  I  to  find  ? But,  children,  your  tulip- 
tree   is  certainly  a  strange  fellow.     There   he   stands, 

blooming  alone,  like  the  last  rose  of  summer 

Gertrude. 
My  great-grandfather  brought  it  from  South  America ! 

George. 
[To  Marie.]     And  that  is  why  you  love  it  so,  because 
it  is  so  foreign  and  strange  ? 

Marie. 
[Busj/  with  linen.]     Perhaps  ! 

Gertrude. 
No,  that  is  not  the  reason 

[52] 


THE  FIRES  OF  ST.  JOHN 

Marie. 
Well  then,  what  is  it? 

Gertrude. 
I'm  going  to  tell  on  you.     One  day  papa  took  her  to 
the  Opera,  down   in   the   city;    there   they   saw    the 

African 

George. 
"  L' Africaine,"  you  mean  ? 

Gertrude. 
Yes,  yes,  that's  what  she  called  it. 

Marie. 

Gertrude,  please  don't 

Gertrude. 

In  that  play  occurs  a  poison-tree  —  I  think 

George. 
Yes,  a  manzanillo-tree ! 

Gertrude. 
Yes,  yes ;   and  whosoever  inhales  the  odor  of  its  blos- 
soms must  die.     And  do  you  know  what  she  did  ?     Oh, 
yes,  I  did  the  same  —  we  would  go  to  this  tree,  smell  of 
its  blossoms,  and  lay  down 

George. 
To  die  ? 

Gertrude. 

To  die. 

Marie. 

Now  you  can  imagine,  George,   how  long  ago  that 

must  have  been. 

Gertrude. 

Yes,  it  was  long,  long  ago.     But  about  four  years 

ago,  one  day  Marie  really  wanted  to  die  very  badly. 

[Marie  casts  a  frightened  glance  at  George, 

who  returns  it  thoughtfully \ 

[531 


THE  FIRES  OF  ST.  JOHN 

Gertrude. 
But  we  didn't. 

George. 
No,  no,  thank  heaven.     Now,  little  one,  run  along 
and  tell  papa  that  I  am  here. 

Gertrude. 
Marie,  will  you  come,  too? 

Marie. 
No ;   I  think  I  will  remain  here  a  little  while  longer. 

Gertrude. 
Then  I'll  stay,  too. 

George. 

Now,  little  one 

[Gertrude  exits  with  a  sigh\ 

Marie. 
\Quickly    and    suppressed.]       Did    you    find    her? 
[George   nods.\      Will   she   come?     Why   don't  you 
answer  ? 

George. 
Marie,  when  you  exacted  this  promise  from  me  this 
morning,  I  did  not  realize  what  it  meant.  I  had  never 
seen  your  —  I  don't  want  to  speak  that  word  —  I  had 
never  seen  this  person  until  to-day.  She  must  not 
come  to  this  house,  secretly  —  she  must  not ! ! ! 

Marie. 
George !  !  ! 

George. 
Take  uncle  into  your  confidence,  at  least. 

Marie. 
No,  no  one  —  no  one  but  you  !  ! 

[54] 


Pfrflvr--'?^"  •- 


THE  FIRES  OF  ST.  JOHN 

George. 
What  do  you  want  ,with  her  ?    You  know  you  belong 
to  this  house.     Here  you  have  everything  your  heart 
desires.     Here  you  have  love  —  here  you  have 

Marie. 
[Interrupts  him]     Bread!     Why  don't  you  say  it? 
Yes,  here  I  have  bread  ! 

George 
I  did  not  mean  to  say  that. 

Marie. 
No ;   but  I  did  !     And  do  I  not  earn  it,  as  well  as  the 
little  love  I  obtain  in  this  house?    I  am  "  The  Calamity 
Child  "  —  and  I  do  not  ask  for  charity. 

George. 
You  seem  to  be  possessed  of  the  very  devil  to-day ! 

Marie. 
Perhaps  ! 

George. 
I  implore  you,  do  not  insist.     I  fear  the  consequence. 
You  will  see !    for  whatever    is    done    against   nature, 
punishes  itself. 

Marie. 
And  is  it  against  nature  when  a  child  cries  out  for  its 
own  mother? 

George. 
She  is  not  your  mother ;  your  mother  is  in  this  house. 

Marie. 
Gertrude's   mother  is  in  this  house,  not  mine.      A 
mother  must  feel  for  her  child,  she  must  see 

George. 
Sh  —  sh ! 

{Enter  Gertrude.) 

[55] 


THE  FIRES  OF  ST.  JOHN 

Gertrude. 
You  two  are  continually   talking  in  whispers;  can't 
you  tell  mef   It  makes  me  so  unhappy ! 

Marie. 
[Caressing  her.]     But  darling,  it  is  all  done  for  your 
sake ! 

[During  this,  GEORGE  looks  at  her  disapprov- 
ingly, while  Marie  casts  a  timid  glance  at 
him^ 

Brauer. 
[Enters]     At  last  you  have  come.     Where  in  thunder 
have  you  been  all  day?  It  almost  seemed  to   me  as  if 
you  were  trying  to  avoid  me  ! 

George. 

But,  uncle 

Brauer. 
Well,  girls,  have  you  prepared  the  pastor's  eggnog? 

Marie. 
Oh,  I  had  entirely  forgotten  it. 
,     Brauer. 
Then  see  to  it  at  once.     And  don't  forget  the  sugar, 

you  know. 

Marie. 

Yes,  papa. 

Brauer. 
And  Gertrude  dear,  you  can  go  and  help  her.     It  is 
time  you  were  learning  to  do  something  yourself. 

Gertrude. 

Yes,  papa ! 

Marie. 
I  hardly  think  it  will  be  ready  in  time  to  take  with 
you  and  mama. 

[561 


THE  FIRES  OF  ST.  JOHN 

Brauer. 
Then  bring  it  later  —  yourself. 

Marie. 
[  With  a  glance  at  George.]     Could  not  Gertrude 
bring  it,  papa?     I  have  so  much  work  to  do ! 

Gertrude. 
No,  no,  papa ! !  ! 

Brauer. 

Yes,  yes,  you  shall !  —  bring  it  up  when  done ;  and 
mind,  you  remain  at  the  pastor's  as  long  as  your 
mother  and  I,  this  time.     Understand  ? 

Gertrude. 

Oh,  papa  dear !  The  last  time,  the  old  pastor  in- 
sisted upon  holding  my  hand  in  his  so  long ;  and  they 
are  so  cold  and  clammy,  so  shriveled  and  hairy,  like 
the  hands  of  the  dead  ! 

Brauer. 

Come  here,  my  child.  Those  hairy  hands  once 
christened  you,  and  at  your  confirmation  the  same 
shriveled  hands  were  laid  upon  your  head  and  invoked 
for  you  the  blessings  of  heaven ;  and  would  you,  after 
all  that,  refuse  to  hold  them  in  your  own  warm  young 
hands?  My  daughter,  I  do  not  wish  to  hear  that 
again.     \Kisses  her\ 

Marie. 
\Slowly  has  approached  GEORGE.     Softly,  aside  to 
him.]     You  will  do  as  I  ask? 

Brauer. 
And  now,  leave  us. 

[Marie  and  Gertrude  exit.] 
"  Now,  then,  comes  your  turn,"  says  the  stork  to  the 
worm. 

I 

[57] 


THE  FIRES  OF  ST.  JOHN 

George. 
[Looking  after  the  girls,  turns \     I  suppose  so,  but 
take  a  care,  uncle,  I  am  not  so  easily  digested. 

Brauer. 
We  shall  see  !     We  shall  see  ! 

George. 
What  do  you  want  with  me  ?     My  financial  condition 
is  satisfactory.     I  have  a  good  position,  and  my  future 
is  assured.     I  desire  to  enjoy  the  results  of  my  own 
labors,  not  those  of  yours. 

Brauer. 
So,  so ! 

George. 
Yes,  dear  uncle.     If  you  were  so  determined  upon 
giving  a  large  dowry,  you  should  have  found  another 
husband  for  Gertrude  than  myself. 

Brauer. 
[Riled.]     Oh,  hang  you  and  your  confounded  pride  ! 

George. 
Yes,   I  am   proud ;   and    because   of    my  pride   and 
determination,  and,  I  may  say,  defiance,  I  have  become 

what  I  am ! 

Brauer. 
[Rather  arrogantly.]     And  was  there  no  diligence  ? 

George. 
That,  also,  was  nothing  but  defiance. 

Brauer. 
I  almost  believe  you  are  determined  to  create  another 
rumpus,  as  you  did  twelve  years  ago. 

George. 
If  necessary,  yes ! 

[58] 


THE  FIRES  OF  ST.  JOHN 

Brauer. 
And  was  it  necessary,  even  then? 

George. 

You  ask  me  that  question?  When  one  day  I  came 
here,  during  vacation  from  college,  you  insisted  upon 
my  attending  your  church.  I  refused.  You  gave  me 
my  choice,  either  to  do  as  you  asked,  or  have  my 
allowance  cut  off.  Then  I  resolved  in  my  mind  never 
to  comply  with  your  command,  in  spite  of  everything. 
Oh,  it  is  no  pleasure  to  hunger,  as  I  was  forced  to  do 
then;  but  you  may  believe  me,  as  I  stand  before  you 
now,  a  free  and  independent  man,  I  owe  all  of  it  to  my 
stubborn  confidence  in  myself,  looking  neither  to  right 
nor  left,  but  straight  ahead,  without  concessions,  with- 
out falsehoods,  always  able  to  look  every  man  straight 
in  the  face.  And  this  good  conscience  is  my  proudest 
possession.  From  it  do  I  draw  all  my  strength,  and  I 
will  never  give  it  up. 

Brauer. 

Well,  who  the  devil  asked  you  to  give  it  up  ? 

George. 

And  one  thing  more.  Of  course,  I  belong  to  this 
house;  fate  has  made  it  my  lot.  Therefore  it  has 
ever  been  far  from  my  mind  to  seek  a  wife  elsewhere, 
so  strongly  attached  do  I  feel  myself  to  this  house ;  and 
that  would  have  been  impossible,  had  I  not  from  that 
day  been  a  free  man.  And  now,  dear  uncle,  you  are 
at  heart  a  good  and  kind  man ;  but  your  hand  is  heavy, 
and  it  must  not  lie  upon  me  again  as  that  of  the  master. 
For  that  reason  do  I  refuse  to  touch  even  one  penny  of 
the  dowry,  now  or  any  other  time. 

Brauer. 

So,  so  !     Then  you  are  really  afraid  of  me  ? 

[59] 


THE  FIRES  OF  ST.  JOHN 

George. 
Afraid  of  you  ?     Bah  !  !  ! 

Brauer. 
And  at  heart  you  are  nothing  but  a  coward ! ! 

George. 
Uncle,  I  forbid  you 

Brauer. 
Vou  forbid  me?     Ha!     This  is  my  house,  and  here 
I  am  the  master ! 

[George  shrubs  his  shoulders\ 

Brauer. 
Yes,  yes;    it  seems  to  annoy  you  to  have  any  one 
keep  an  eye  on  you  and  your  conduct 

George. 
My  life  has  been  as  an  open  book  to  this  day. 

Brauer. 
But  after  to-day  —  what  about  that?     Who  can  look 
into  the   future?     Who  can  look  into  your  heart  and 
read  your  thoughts?     Who  knows  what  may  happen 
over  night,  eh? 

George. 
Uncle,  these  are  insults  I  will  not  endure,  even  from 

you 

Brauer. 
Well!  What  then !     Come  on !     \yumps  up^  facing 
him,  ready  to  fight \ 

Mrs.   Brauer. 
[Enters,  ready  to  go  out,  dressed.]     Henry,  what  on 
earth  have  you  done  to  Gertrude  ?     She  is  in  her  room, 
crying  as  if  her  heart  would  break. 

[Marie  has  also  come  in  with  Mrs.  Brauer.] 

[60] 


THE  FIRES  OF  ST.  JOHN 

Brauer. 
How  is  the  eggnog  getting  on,  Marie  ? 

Marie. 
It  is  not  quite  done,  papa ! 

Brauer. 
Then  let  her  have   her  cry;    she  can  bring  it  up 
later. 

Marie. 
Yes,  papa. 

Mrs.  Brauer. 
And  are  you  ready? 

Brauer. 
Ready  for  what? 

Mrs.   Brauer. 
Are  you  ready  to  go  now? 

Brauer. 
Well,  wait  for  me   out  on  the  veranda;    we  have 
something  to  settle  first,  we  two  ! 

Mrs.   Brauer. 
What's  the  matter  with  George  ? 

Brauer. 
Oh,  I  have  just  asked  him  for  an  explanation,  and  that 
does  not  seem  to  please  him. 

Mrs.  Brauer. 
[Caressing  Aim.]     Don't  you  mind  him,  George  dear. 
After  the  wedding  you  can  laugh  at  him. 

Brauer. 
Well,  we  shall  see  about  that !  !  ! 

[Mrs.  Brauer  and  Marie  exit.] 
Brauer. 
We  can't  go  on  like  this,  for  I  fear  the  consequences ; 
but,  nevertheless,  I  shall  handle  you  without  gloves. 

[6i] 


THE  FIRES  OF  ST.  JOHN 

George. 

Well? 

Brauer. 

My  child  loves  you.  You  are  her  ideal,  her  all,  and 
the  wedding  must  take  place.  But  tell  me,  what  right 
have  you  to  all  this  pride  —  I  might  even  say  arrogance  ? 

George. 

Must  I  perhaps  ask  your  permission ? 

Brauer. 
That  is  the  same  old  defiance,  the  same  unreasonable 

stubbornness  of  your  father's !  !  !  !  ! 

George. 
[Siarts.]     My  father   has  been   dead   these    twenty 
years — what  do  you  want  of  him  now? 

Brauer. 
What  do  I  want  of  him?     That  he  left  you  to  me, 
to  bring  up  from    childhood,   I  will  hardly  mention; 
although  that  ought  to  be  sufficient  to  temper   your 

untamable  pride  —  at  least  towards  me  ;   but 

George. 
Uncle,  you  may  abuse  me  as  much  as  you  please,  but 
my  father  I  will  not  have  disturbed  !     My  father  -  you 
shall  let  him  rest  in  peace  ! 

Brauer. 
And  who  was  it  —  who  took  care  —  who  made  it  pos- 
sible, that  he  could  rest  in  peace? 

George. 

Uncle,  what  do  you  mean  ? 

Brauer. 

Well  then,  who  was  it,  when  he  laid  there,  dead,  before 
us,  who  paid  his  debts  of  honor  and  saved  your  father's 
name  from  disgrace?  [Pause.] 

[62] 


THE  FIRES  OF  ST.  JOHN 

George. 
Uncle,  you  should  not  have  said  that ! 

[Sinks  in  chair  and  covers  his  face  with  his 
hands.] 

Brauer. 

My  boy [Emotion  stops  him  from  saying  more  — 

walks  about\     See  here •  [Again  the  same  —  tries  to 

light  a  cigar,  breaks  it  and  throws  it  away.] 

George. 
You  should  not  have  said  that,  uncle  !     No,  no 

Brauer. 
My  God,  you  knew  of  it? 

George. 
Yes,  I  knew  of  it,  and  yet  you  should  not  have  said 
it;  you  should  not  have  repeated  it.  Twelve  years  ago, 
in  our  quarrel,  when  you  raised  your  whip  to  me  —  and 
I  reached  for  the  carving-knife  —  no,  no  —  I  should  not 
have  done  that.  You  should  not  have  raised  your  whip, 
nor  I  the  knife.  That  is  the  reason  I  refused  anything 
from  you  at  all.  Now  you  know  it.  From  that  day  I 
swore  to  scratch  the  gold  from  the  ground  with  my 
finger  nails  and  fling  it  in  your  face.  From  that  day  I 
hated  you  —  and  rightly  so  ! 

Brauer. 
And  all  that  because  I  saved  your  and  your  father's 
name  from  dishonor  and  disgrace  ? 

George. 
No/    But  because  you  turned  that  same  deed  into  a 
weapon  to  crush  my  youthful  pride. 

Brauer. 
My  boy,  one  uses  the  weapon  nearest  to  hand. 

[63] 


THE  FIRES  OF  ST.  JOHN 

George. 
[Bitterly.]     Even  if  it  is  only  a  whip.     But  then,  I 
see  my  mistake.     I  have  no  right  to  pride ;  my  fatherly 
inheritance  does  not  permit  it.      Give  me  your  gold ! 
I'll  take  it!     All  — all ! 

Brauer. 
No,  no ;  in  your  present  state  of  mind  I  will  force 
nothing  on  you.     You  might  again  turn  to  hating  me. 

George. 
Ah  no,  dear  uncle,  that  is  past.     Hereafter,  I  will 
swallow  my  pride. 

Brauer. 

My  boy 

Marie. 
[Enters]     Pardon  me  papa,  but  mama  asks,  if  you 
arc  not  yet  ready  to  go  ? 

Brauer. 
[With  a  glance  at  George.]     Well,  as  far  as  I  am 
concerned,  I  am  ready  now!      [Takes  his  hat.]     Marie, 
give  him  a  glass  of  brandy  to  brace  [him  up.     [Goes  to 
door  and  returns.].     George? 

George. 
Uncle  ?     [Brauer  offers  his  hand.]     My  hand  I  can- 
not refuse  you. 

Brauer. 
[Goes  to  door.     In  door.]     Yes,  and  your  heart,  too,  I 
will  win  again  —  or  I'll  be  damned  !  !  !  ! 

[Exits,  slamming  door.] 

Marie. 
What  did  he  say  to  you,  George? 

[64.1 


THE  FIRES  OF  ST.  JOHN 

George. 
Do  not  ask  me,  do  not  ask  me !  [Walks  adoui.]  All 
these  years  I  have  struggled  and  deprived  myself  with 
only  one  thing  in  view  —  to  be  free  —  free  —  and  yet 
I  must  bo*w  —  I  must  bow.  If  it  were  not  for  the  sake 
of  this  beautiful  child,  who  is  innocent  of  it  all,  I  would 

be  tempted  to But  the  die  is  cast,  the  yoke  is 

ready  —  and  so  am  I !!!!!!  ! 

Marie. 
[So/tlf  and  hesitating^     But,  George,  dear,  here  in 
this  house,  I  see  nothing  for  you  but  love  —  the  yoke 
seems  so  light 

George. 
How  pious  and  tame  you  have  suddenly  become ! 

Marie. 
I  am  not  pious. 

George. 
What  was  that  you  said  a  few  moments  ago  ?  "I  am 
the  calamity  child.  I  am  the  child  of  misery ;  but  I  do 
not  ask  for  charity."  That  is  what  you  said  of  your- 
self, a'nd  it  is  also  true  of  me.  I,  too,  am  a  child  of 
misery,  a  calamity  child ;  but  I  am  a  subject  of  charity. 
I   accept  all  they  have   to   give  —  all  —  all  —  ha,   ha, 

ha ! 

Marie. 
You,  George,  a  calamity  child? 

George. 
Yes !  Was  I  not  picked  up  from  the  street,  as  my 
uncle  so  kindly  informed  me  for  the  second  time  —  like 
yourself?  Do  I  not  belong  to  this  house,  and  am  I  not 
smothered  with  the  damnable  charity  of  my  benefactors, 
Hke  yourself? 

1651 


THE  FIRES  OF  ST.  JOHN 

Marie. 
I  receive  my  share  with  thanks. 

George. 

And  you  enjoy  serving 

Marie. 
I  enjoy  serving  !  ! 

George. 

But  I  —  I  wish  to  rule  —  to  command  !  !  ! 

Marie. 
And  you  shall  rule  —  you  shall  command 

George. 
{Walking  about  and  ironically \     Ah  yes  !  !  ! 

Marie. 
\Tifnidly\     George  ? 

George. 
Well? 

Marie. 
\rhe  same.]     Pardon  me  ;   but  have  you  forgotten  —  ? 

George. 
Oh,  I  see  ! 

Marie. 
I  know  it  is  wrong  in  me  to  annoy  you  at  this  time, 

when  you  are  so  occupied  with  affairs  of  your  own 

Besides,  you  have  already  refused  me  once 

George. 
Wha  —  yes,  now  in  spite  of  them  all,  I   am  my  own 
master.     I  am  responsible  to  no  one.     I  have  promised 
you  —  I  shall  keep  my  word  !  !  !  !  ! 

Marie. 
Thank  you,  George ! 

[66] 


THE  FIRES  OF  ST.  JOHN 

George. 
Oh,  don't  thank  me 


Marie. 
Where  is  she  now? 

George. 
She  is  waiting,  behind  yonder  garden  hedge. 

Marie. 
My  God  !  Do  not  keep  her  waiting  any  longer ;   call 
her  in  here. 

George. 
Gertrude  is  still  in  the  house. 

Marie. 
I  will  get  her  out  of  the  way.     When  I  appear  out 
there  on  the  veranda,  the  coast  is  clear !  ! 

George. 
Marie,   for  your  own  sake,  I  warn  you  for  the  last 
time ;  discovery  means  certain  disaster. 

Marie. 
One  disaster  more  or  less,  it  matters  little ! 

George. 
Is  that  your  last  word  ?     Very  well,  I  will  bring  her 
to  you.     [Gets  his  hat  and  goes  out  centre  door.] 

Marie. 
[Opens  door  L.  and  calls  out.]     Gertrude  !  Gertrude  ! 

[A  door  is  heard  to  open.] 
Gertrude. 
[Outsidct  with  crying  voice.]     What  is  it? 

Marie. 
Come  quickly,  or  papa  will  be  angry ! 

Gertrude. 
\After  a  moment's  pause ^     I  am  coming !      [Another 
short  pause  and  she  appears  in  door.] 

[67] 


~'^^^W^^^^y^^'-  ••■''.  .,  '    ■.    '■^-•■-    ■■■-.;■  ,.     >       ..     ■■^■■^■1^-s^^-p.yi^Sllf^^^ 


r 


THE  FIRES  OF  ST.  JOHN 

Mari6. 
How  red  your  eyes  are !     You  have   been  crying ! 
What's  the  matter,  dear?     [Caressing  her] 

Gertrude. 

Where  is  George? 

Marie. 
[Lightly]     He  went  out  again  a  few  moments  ago. 

Gertrude. 
And  he  didn't  ask  to  see  me  ? 

Marie. 
He  heard  you  were  crying  and  did  not  want  to  dis- 
turb you. 

Gertrude. 

But,  Marie,  what  is  the  matter  with  your  own  eyes? 

And  you  look  so  queerly 

Marie. 
My  pet,  they  are  the  eyes  that  God  has  given   me 

and 

Gertrude. 

[Suspiciously]     What? 

[A  knock  at  door  is  heard] 

Marie. 

I 

Come  in ! 

Maid  Servant. 

[Enters  with  basket]     Here  are  the  eggnog  and  cakes, 

for  the  pastor.     Now  be  careful  and  don't  crush  them  ! 

Marie. 

Very  well ! 

[Exit  Servant.] 

Gertrude. 
[Taking  basket]     Good-bye,  Marie ! 

[68] 


THE  FIRES  OF  ST.  JOHN 

Marie. 
Good-bye,  Gertie  dear ! 

[Gertrude  starts  towards  centre  door.] 

Marie. 
[Fri^/itened.]     Where  are  you  going? 

Gertrude. 
I  am  going  through  the  garden  across  the  fields; 
perhaps  I  will  meet  George. 

Marie. 
[Concerned.]     No, no;   you  must  not  walk  across  the 
fields  alone.     Papa  has  forbidden  it. 

Gertrude. 
But  I  may  meet  George. 

Marie. 
But  if  you  shouldn't,  what  then  ?     No,  no,  I  will  not 
allow  it !     I  will  not !     I  had  such  a  fright  last  night. 

Gertrude. 
[Goes  up  to  the  other  door  and  turns  back  once  more.] 
Marie,  you  are  not  angry  with  me  ? 

Marie. 
[Emdracing-  her.]     My  darling  !  !  ! 

Gertrude. 
Then  I  will  go  that  way !      [Looks  all  around.]     Give 
my  love  to  George  ! 

Marie. 
But  I  won't  see  him,  dear 

Gertrude. 
Well,  perhaps  you  may ! 

Marie. 
In  that  case,  I  will  tell  him  — 

[69J 


THE  FIRES  OF  ST.  JOHN 

Gertrude. 

Very  well. 

[Exit  R] 

[Marie  g-oes  out  on  veranda  — gives  sign  — 
returns  —  locks  doors  R.  and  L.  —  then  at 
C.  door —  in  terror,  with  searching  eyes,  she 
slowly  retreats  backwards,  her  eyes  glued 
on  the  outer  darkness  —  until  she  finally 
covers  her  face  with  her  hands,  and  is 
standing  against  the  wall.] 

George. 
[Enters.]      Here  she  is  !  ! 

Gypsy. 
[Enters.     George  goes  out  on  veranda,  looking  off\ 
Mine    lady,     mine    daughter  —  yes  —  don't   be  afraid. 
Oh,  you  are  such  a  fine  lady  —  you  have  lover  —  you 

marry,  they  say ? 

Marie. 
[Forcing  herself  to   speak.]       No;      I'm    not   to    be 
married  !     It  is  Gertrude,  my  foster  sister. 

Gypsy. 
You  no  marry,  eh?     Never  mind — you  marry  some 
day — some  day       [Examining  Marie's  dress  with  her 

fingers]     What  a  fine  dress  you  have,  and  all  wool 

[Same  with  apron.]     Oh,  and   a  silk  apron  —  all  silk ! 
Give  me,  give  me? 

[Marie  takes  it  off  and  gives  it  to  her.] 

Gypsy. 
Thank  you  —  thank  you  !  !  !     [Kisses  Marie's  sleeve 
and  dress,  but  when   she  would  kiss  her  hand,  Marie 
withdraws  it  quickly] 

l7o| 


THE  FIRES  OF  ST.  JOHN 

Marie. 
No,  no  !   Ne  dosu  ranka! 

Gypsy. 
All  right,  all  right !    You  are  fine  lady.     \L00k5  about\ 
Is  the  old  man  home,  eh? 

Marie. 
No,  he  is  out. 

Gypsy. 

That  is  good,  that  is  good  !  He  is  an  old  devil  —  is 
the  old  man  !  All  Prussians  are  devils.  But  he  have 
fine  house,  he  have  !   Like  a  prince  !  !  !     \Rubs  her  hand 

over  table  cover.]     Ah,  nice  shawl  that  would  make 

[Sees  linen.\    And  what  fine  linen  —  \Moiions  to  MARIE.] 
Come  here ! 

Marie. 

[Approaching  ker.]     What  do  you  want? 

Gypsy. 
[Pointing  with  thumb.]     Give  me  an  drink — just  an 
little  drink  !      [Indicates  with  finger  and  thumb.] 

[While  Marie  turns  to  sideboard,  she  quickly 

takes  two  or  three  pieces  of  linen  and  with 

left  hand  holds  them  hidden  under  her  apron.] 

Gypsy. 

[After  taking  drink  from    Marie.]     Thanks,   mine 

daughter,  thanks  !      [After  drinking^  rubs  her  stomach.] 

Ah,    that's    good,    that's    good  !  —  Give    me    another ! 

[Marie  fills  another  glass   for    her  —  she  drinks  it.] 

Thank  you,  thank  you  !  !     But  now  I  must  be  going ! 

[In  her  anxiety  to  get  out  she  drops  one  piece, 
while  going  to  the  door.] 

Marie. 
[Horrified.]     Mo  —  mo  —  what  were  you   trying  to 
do? 

[71] 


^  1       ■■    .:^M  -,.-,.    '■■J?^-.!»'«THEf'^'S'5;i(^ 


THE  FIRES  OF  ST.  JOHN 

Gypsy. 
\Pretendtng  surprise. \      My,  my  —  just  see  !     I  found 
this  out  on  the  field.     [Picks  it  up  and  puts  it  under  her 
arm.] 

Marie. 
Put  that  down,  it  is  not  yours. 

Gypsy. 

[Doin£^  so.]    All  right,  all  right —  my  —  my — my 

Marie. 
Put  down  all  you  have  ! 

Gypsy. 
I  have  no  more,  no, no  more,  I  swear! 

Marie. 
[Goes  quickly  to  door  and  calls\      George  ! 

George. 
\Enters\     Well? 

Marie. 
Give  me  some  money  !      [He  gives  her  a  gold  piece.] 
[Marie  to  her  mother.]     Here,    here  is  money;   now 

give  me  the  linen 

Gypsy. 
[Takes  the  money  as  she  gives  up  the  linen,  greedily \ 
A  ducat !     A  whole  ducat !     A  golden  ducat !     Mine 

daughter,  thank  you ! 

Marie. 

And  now,  go ! 

Gypsy. 

[Goes  anxiously   to   the   door.]       Alright,  alright !!  ! 

[Throws  a  kiss  to  Marie,  and  quick  exit.] 

Marie. 
[Quickly  takes  key  from  board.]     George,  take  this 
key  and  lock  the  garden  gate  after  her,  so  she  does  not 
return. 

[72] 


THE  FIRES  OF  ST.  JOHN 

[George  exits.  Marie  looks  after  tkem^  then  slowly 
returns  to  the  .tabUy  leans  against  same, 
and  stares  vacantly.  Knock  is  heard  at 
door  L\ 

Marie 
\Mtchanically\     Come  in ! 

Servant. 
\Trying  the  door  from  the  out  side  \     The   door  is 

locked ! 

[Marie  opetis  the  door.] 
Servant. 
[Enters  with  dishes.]     It  is  time  to  lay  the  table  for 
supper  —  will  you  help  me,  please  ?     Why,  what's  the 

matter  ?     You  are  not  listening  to  me 

Marie. 
Never  mind,  Lena,  I  will  set  the  table  myself ! 

Servant. 
Will  you  ?     Very  well !  !  !  [Exit  SERVANT.] 

George. 
[Enters.     To  Marie,  who  does  not  stir.]     Remember 
what  I  told  you.     But  come,  come,  this  will  never  do  ! 

Don't  stare  at  me  like  that 

Marie. 
[Leaning  on  him  and  weeping.]     Oh,  George  ! 

George. 
[Stroking  her  hair.]     That's  it,  dear,  the  tears  will 
relieve   you !     Ah,    I   well   know   the   anguish   of    an 
aching  heart ! 

Marie. 
Yes,  you  know,  you  know  all !     Now  I  have  no  one 
in   this   whole  world  but  you — you   alone.     [As   she 
bursts  out  crying  she  throws  herself  on  his  breast.] 

[73] 


THE  FIRES  OF  ST.  JOHN 

George. 
[Stroking-  her  hair.]     Yes,  yes ;    we  two  understand 
each   other.     We  two   were  meant,   were   intended   for 
each  other.     Were  we  not,  dear? 

Marie. 
My  God  !     Yes  !  ! 

Geo  r  ge . 

And  we  will  ever  remember  this  day  —  the  day  that 
brought  us  together.  It  is  the  day  before  St.  John's 
Eve.     Will  you  remember  it,  dear? 

[Short pause.     MARIE  silent,  then  struggles  to 
free  her  self \ 

Marie. 
Don't,  George  !      Go  away  !      Please  don't ! 

George. 
\Embarrassed\       But    why    should    I    suddenly    go 
away,  Marie? 

Marie. 
Go,  George,  I  beg  of  you  !      I  must  lay  the  table  !  ! 

Now  go ! 

George. 

Marie,  you  said  yourself  you  "had  no  one  but  me  ! 

Marie. 

If  you  do  not  want  to  despise  me,  please  go 

George. 
\With  forced  laugh.]     I  despise  you?     Very  well  — 

I'll  go 

\Turns  once  more  in  the  door  and  hesitatingly 

exits.] 

[Marie  breaks  dowHy  weeping.] 

[Curtain  \ 

END    OF   THE    SECOND    ACT. 

[74] 


ACT  THREE 

Same  setting.  Above  the  centre  table  a  lighted  hanging- 
lamp.  Another  lamp  on  table,  L.  The  glass  doors 
to  garden  are  open.  Full  tnoonshine  falls  partly 
into  the  room.  At  rise  of  curtain,  at  table,  Z.,  are 
Brauer,  Mrs.  Brauer  and  Pastor.  At  centre 
table,  Gertrude  and  George.    //  is  evening. 


Brauer. 
Now,  then,  tell  Marie  to  bring  the  bowl ! 

Pastor. 
Ah  !  you  are  going  to  have  a  bowl  ? 

Mrs.  Brauer  . 
Why,  of  course,   Pastor.     This    is    St.    John's    Eve. 
The  villagers  will  set  off  tar-barrels  and  bonfires,  and 
we  will  celebrate  it  with  a  bowl. 

Brauer. 
\Mischievously\     But   perhaps    this    festival    is    too 
heathenish  for  the  clergy 

Pastor. 
Bless  you,  that  all  depends.     If  you  have  not  the 
clergy's  sanction,  then  it  is  wicked  and  heathenish 

Brauer. 
But  if  they  are   invited,   then   it   is  Christianly  and 
good  ?     Ha,  ha ! 

[75] 


THE  FIRES  OF  ST.  JOHN 

Pastor. 
Well,  I  did  not  say  that.     You  had  better  apply  to 
the    consistory,  they   are   better   able   to    decide   that 
point. 

Brauer. 
Ah,  Pastor,  you  are  a  diplomat.     Well,  what  are  you 
two  doing  over  there  ?     You  are  not  saying  a  word. 

Gertrude. 
George  is  too  lazy.     He  is  drawing  little  men,  and  I 
am  writing. 

Brauer. 
In  his  place  I  think  I   would  prefer   to   draw  little 
women.     Eh,  Pastor? 

George. 
Just  as  you  say,  uncle  ! 

Brauer. 
[Aside.]     What   the   devil  is  the    matter  with   him 
to-day?     Come,   children,  be  jolly,  this   is   St.   John's 
Eve  !     Ah,  here  is  the  punch !     Now,  then,  Gertrude, 
lend  a  hand ! 

[Marie  /las  entered  with  the  bowl  and glasses\ 

Gertrude. 
Yes,  papa. 

Brauer. 
[Drinks.]     Excellent,  Marie  !     Superb  !     I  tell  you, 
Pastor,  whoever  gets  her  for  a  wife  will  be  a  lucky  man 
indeed. 

Gertrude. 
[  With  a  glass  to  George,  who  has  gone  back  and  is 
looking  out.]     Don't  you  want  some,  George  ? 

George. 
[Caressing  her,  with  a  shy  glance  at  Marie.]      Why, 

[76] 


THE  FIRES  OF  ST.  JOHN 

yes,  little  one,  thank  you  !  Look,  how  bright  and  beau- 
tiful the  moon  shines  to-night !  Everything  wrapped 
as  in  silvery  spider  web  !     How  beautiful ! 

Marie. 

[Oppressed.]     They  will  soon  set  off  the  bonfires. 

Brauer. 

See,  see  —  at  last  you  have  spoken ;   I  feared  you  had 
lost  your  tongue.     Come  here,  my  child.     Get  your 

glasses,  all  of  you Your  health  !     The  Pastor  shall 

give  us  a  toast ;  yes,  yes,  Pastor  !  —  a  genuin«f  pagan 
toast,  well  suited  to  this  night!  Now,  tell  me,  my 
child,  are  you  obliged  to  go  to  the  city  again  to-night? 

Marie. 
Yes,  papa  dear. 

Brauer. 
But  if  I  will  not  allow  it? 

Marie. 
You  gave  your  permission  quite  two  weeks  ago,  papa 
dear ! 

Brauer 
But  not  to  go  in  the  middle  of  the  night ! 

Marie. 
I  must  go,  papa.     The  men  are  to  be  there  at  seven 
in  the  morning,  and  if  I  am  not  there  to  give  instructions 
the  house  will  never  be  finished  in  time. 

Mrs.  Brauer. 
Never  mind,  Henry,  there  is  no  help  for  it. 

Brauer. 
But  look  at  her ! 

Marie. 
Why,  papa,  there  is  nothing  the  matter  with  mc.     I 
am  well  and  merry 

[77] 


THE  FIRES  OF  ST.  JOHN 

Brauer. 
You  arc  merry,  eh  ?     Let  me  hear  you  laugh ! 

Marie. 
[Tries  to  laugh\     Ha,  ha,  ha ! 

Brauer. 

\Imitating  her\     Yes,  yes  —  ha,  ha,  ha ! 

Mrs.   Brauer. 
Come  here,  my  child.     \Strokes  her  hair.]     Did  you 
sleep  well  last  night? 

Marie. 
Yes,  mama. 

Brauer. 
But  if  this  stranger  should  attack  you  again? 

Pastor. 
Pardon  me,  but  what  do  I  hear? 

Brauer. 
Oh,  nothing   of    importance,   Pastor.      [To    Marie.] 
You  will  take  the  one  o'clock  train 

Marie. 
Yes,  papa. 

Brauer. 
There   is     another  —  at     four  —  t'will     be     daylight 
then 

Marie. 
But  I  would  not  reach  the  city  in  time. 

Brauer. 
Very  well,  you  needn't  go  to  bed,  then.     George  can 
take  you  to  the  depot. 

Marie. 
[Startled.\     George  ? 

George. 
[Startled  and  simultaneously  \     What  —  I  ? 

[78] 


THE  FIRES  OF  ST.  JOHN 

Brauer. 
Certainly  !     Why  not  ? 

Pastor. 
Pray  do  not  think  me  obtrusive ;   but  I  am  at  your 
service. 

Brauer. 
No,  no,  thank  you.  Pastor ;  your  time  will  come  some 
other  day.     [Aside.]     It  will   at  least  give  him  some- 
thing to  do.     [Meaning  GEORGE.] 

Gertrude. 
I  want  to  go  too,  papa !     I  love  moonshine  prome- 
nades. 

Brauer. 
No,  no,    my   pet.      In   the   first   place,    it    is   very 
improper  for  lovers  to  be  out  so  late  at  night,  without  a 
chaperon. 

Marie. 
I  would  much  prefer  to  go  alone.     I   am  not  at  all 
afraid  —  and  I  do  not  wish  to  trouble  George  —  or  any 
one  else 

Brauer. 
Any  one  else  is  out  of  the  question,  for  in  this  house 
every  one  rises  at  five  in  the  morning.     [To  GEORGE.] 
Now,  then,  what  excuse  have  you  to  offer? 

George. 
Excuse?     I?     Why,  none   at   all,   except   that  she 
does  not  want  me  to  go.     You  heard  it  yourself! 

Brauer. 
Have  you  two  been  quarreling  again? 

Mrs.  Brauer. 
Don't  insist,  Henry,  if  they  don't  want  to 

[79] 


THE  FIKES  OF  ST.  JOHN 

Brauer. 
By  the  way,  send  for  Mr.  Paul  —  I  wish  to  speak  to 
him.     Pastor,  your  health !      [Drinks] 

[At  this  Marie  and  Gertrude  go  to  door  C, 
and  speak  to  sorne  one  outside  in  pantomime. 
A  voice  is  heard.] 

Voice. 
Mr.  Paul !     Mr.  Paul ! 

Paul. 
[From  behind  scene. \     I  am  coming  in  one  moment! 
[Short  pause.     He  enters.]     Here  I  am  ! 

Brauer. 
Ah,  there  you  are  !     Give  him  a  glass  of  punch  ! 

Paul. 

Thank  you,  I  have  just  had  a  glass  of  beer. 

Brauer. 

Very  well !     Now,  don't  let  us  disturb  you,  children  ! 

Pastor,  this  is  the  time  to  prepare  your  toast.     [Aside 

to  Paul.]     Well,   have  you   learned   anything  of   this 

stranger  ? 

Paul. 

Not  a  sign  of  one,  excepting  two  tramps  at  the  inn, 
the  gendarme  placed  under  arrest;  but  that  was  the 
day  before  yesterday. 

Brauer. 

H'm!  If  I  had  ever  had  the  slightest  reason  to 
doubt  her  word Marie,  my  child,  come  here  to 

me. 

Marie. 

Yes,  papa ! 

Brauer. 

[Looks  at  her  sharply]     Never  mind,  now. 

[80] 


THE  FIRES  OF  ST.  JOHN 

Paul. 
[Aside  to  Brauer.]     By  the   way,   I    saw   the   old 
woman  again ! 

Brauer 
Sh  !   not  so  loud  !     Where  ? 

Paul. 

She  had  money,  too 

Brauer. 
I  wonder  where  she  stole  it? 

Paul. 
I  wonder !     The  innkeeper  said  she  had  a  gold  piece. 
But  don't  you  worry,  Mr.  Brauer.     She  will  soon  give  us 
cause  to  have  her  locked  up  again.      She  is  incorrigible  ! 

Brauer 
Does  she  sleep  at  the  inn? 

Paul. 
No,  sir  !     At  night  she  leaves  there,  only  to  reappear 
in  the  morning. 

Brauer. 

H'm !    that  would  almost  be  sufficient  reason 

George ! 

George. 
Uncle? 

Brauer. 
I  have  changed   my  mind.     You   must   accompany 

Marie ! 

George. 

Just  as  you  say,  uncle  ! 

Brauer. 

And  no  quarreling  this  time,  Marie ! 

Marie. 


Yes,  papa. 


[81] 


■MHHi 


^    THE  FIRES  OF  ST.  JOHN 

Gertrude. 
[On  the  veranda\     There,   there,   look !     The  first 
bonfire !  ! 

\Singing  and  laughter  is  heard  in  distance. 
A  red  glow  is  seen.] 

Mrs.   Brauer. 
Have  you  taken  care,  Mr.  Paul,  to  keep  them  far 
enough  away  from  the  sheds  ? 

Paul. 
Yes,  Mrs.  Brauer ! 

Mrs.   Brauer. 
For  you   must  know.   Pastor,  last  year  the  sparks 
came  very  near  setting  fire  to  the  straw  roofs. 

Gertrude. 
There   is  a  second  one   now,  and  there  on  the  hill, 
another.     See,  George,  see  !     How  beautiful ! 

George. 
Yes,  yes,  darling,  I  see ! 

Gertrude. 
[Pulls  him  forward  softly\     Why  do  you  call  me 

darling  to-day? 

George. 
Well,  shan't  I? 

Gertrude. 
Oh,  of  course ;   but  do  you  love  me  more  to-day? 

George. 
I  love  you  always,  my  pet ! 

Gertrude. 
[Softly  and  with  emotion  \     But  you  usually  call  me 
"  little  one,"  and  to-day  nothing  but  "  darling." 

Brauer. 
Now,  then,    Pastor,    we   are    ready   for    the   toast! 
Take  up  your  glass,  and  fire  away! 

[82] 


THE  FIRES  OF  ST.  JOHN      . 

Pastor. 
I  am  afraid  it  will  be  hardly  as  wicked  and  heathenish 
as  you  seem  to  expect. 

Brauer. 
Come,  come,  Pastor,  don't  keep  us  waiting ! 

Pastor. 
Well,  what  shall  I  say?     I  am  not  going  to  preach 

you  a  sermon ! 

Brauer. 

No,  no.  Pastor;   we  are  content  to  wait  for  that  till 

Sunday. 

Pastor. 

Well,  then,  you  see,  on  a  beautiful  and  dreamy  night 

like  this —  may  I  say  dreamy? 

Brauer. 
You  may.  Pastor,  you  may ! 

Pastor. 
For  we  all  dream  at  times,  more  or  less,  both  young 

and  old ! 

Brauer. 

Ah,  yes !  that  is  a  failing  we  all  have !  !  ! 

Pastor. 

On  such  a  dreamy  night,  different  emotions  are 
aroused  within  us.  We  seem  to  be  able  to  look  into 
the  future,  and  imagine  ourselves  able  to  fathom  all 
mystery  and  heal  all  wounds.  The  common  becomes 
elevated,  our  wishes  become  fate ;  and  now  we  ask  our- 
selves: What  is  it  that  causes  all  this  within  us  —  all 
these  desires  and  wishes?  It  is  love,  brotherly  love, 
that  has  been  planted  in  our  souls,  that  fills  our  lives ; 
and,  it  is  life  itself.  Am  I  not  right?  And  now,  with 
one  bound,  I  will  come  to  the  point.  In  the  revelation 
you  will  find :  "  God  is  love."     Yes,  God  is  love ;   and 

[83] 


-■1 


THE  FIRES  OF  ST.  JOHN 

that  is  the  most  beautiful  trait  of  our  religion  — that  the 
best,  the  most  beautiful  within  us,  has  been  granted  us 
by  Him  above.  Then  how  could  I,  this  very  evening, 
so  overcome  with  feeling  for  my  fellow-man  —  how 
could  I  pass  Him  by?  Therefore,  Mr.  Brauer,  no 
matter,  whether  pastor  or  layman,  I  must  confess  my 
inability  to  grant  your  wish,  and  decline  to  give  you  a 
genuine  pagan  toast 

Brauer. 
\Grasps  his  hand\     That  was  well  spoken,  Pastor ! 
Pardon  me,  I  was  only  jesting ! 

George. 
No,  no,  dear  uncle,  not  altogether.  There  I  must 
defend  you  against  yourself.  A  devout  and  pious  man 
like  yourself,  t'was  not  entire  wantonness,  your  desire 
to  hear  something  other  than  religious,  and  since  the 
Pastor  has  so  eloquently  withdrawn,  I  will  give  you  a 
toast.  For,  you  see,  my  dear  Pastor,  something  of  the 
old  pagan,  a  spark  of  heathenism,  is  still  glowing  some- 
where within  us  all.  It  has  outlived  century  after  cen- 
tury, from  the  time  of  the  old  Teutons.  Once  every 
year  that  spark  is  fanned  into  flame  —  it  flames  up  high, 
and  then  it  is  called  "  The  Fires  of  St.  John."  Once 
every  year  we  have  "  free  night."  Then  the  witches  ride 
upon  their  brooms  —  the  same  brooms  with  which  their 
witchcraft  was  once  driven  out  of  them  —  with  scorn- 
ful laughter  the  wild  hordes  sweep  across  the  tree-tops, 
up,  up,  high  upon  the  Blocksberg !  Then  it  is,  when 
in  our  hearts  awake  those  wild  desires  which  our  fates 
could  not  fulfill  —  and,  understand  me  well,  dared  not 
fulfill  —  then,  no  matter  what  may  be  the  name  of  the  law 
that  governs  the  world  on  that  day,  in  order  that  that 
one  single  wish  may  become  a  reality,  by  whose  'grace 

[84] 


THE  FIRES  OF  ST.  JOHN 

we  prolong  our  miserable  existence,  thousand  others 
must  miserably  perish.  Part  because  they  were  never 
attainable;  but  the  others,  yes,  the  others,  because 
we  allowed  them  to  escape  us  like  wild  birds, 
which,  though  already  in  our  hands,  but  too  listless  to 
profit  by  opportunity,  we  failed  to  grasp  at  the  right 
moment.  But  no  matter.  Once  every  year  we  have 
"  free  night,"  And  yonder  tongues  of  fire  shooting  up 
towards  the  heavens  —  do  you  know  what  they  are? 
They  are  the  spirits  of  our  dead  and  perished  wishes ! 
That  is  the  red  plumage  of  our  birds  of  paradise  we 
might  have  petted  and  nursed  through  our  entire  lives, 
but  have  escaped  us !  That  is  the  old  chaos,  the 
heathenism  within  us ;  and  though  we  be  happy  in 
sunshine  and  according  to  law,  to-night  is  St.  John's 
night.  To  its  ancient  pagan  fires  I  empty  this  glass. 
To-night  they  shall  burn  and  flame  up  high  —  high  — 
and  again  high !    Will  no  one  drink  to  my  toast? 

[Pause.] 

Marie. 

[Trembling.]     I  will! 

[TAej   look   into  each  other's  eyes  and  clink 
glasses  \ 

Gertrude. 
[Hesitatingly \     I,  too,  George  ! 

George. 
[Stroking  her  hair  sadly,  patronizing \     Yes,  yes ; 
you,  too.  ) 

Brauer. 
[Suddenly  bursting  out.]     You  —  you  idiots  !     What 
do  you  know  about  it,  anyway  ?     I  —  I  didn't  under- 
stand  it   myself,  but  I   have  a  presentiment  there  is 
something  sinful  about  it  all ! 

[85l 


M 


THE  FIRES  OF  ST.  JOHN 

Pastor. 
My  dear  Mr,  von  Harten,  above  all  your  heathenism 
watches  our  good  old  God,  our  Father,  and  therefore  I 
fearlessly  drink  to  your  toast. 

Brauer. 
Well,  well,  I'll  not  be  the  only  exception.     [Drinks 
also.     A  glow  much  nearer,  behind  the  trees.     Louder 
yelling  and  laughter \     Well,  what  is  it  now  ? 

Paul. 
They  are  dangerously  near  the  sheds  now. 

Brauer. 
Didn't  I  tell  you  to  take  the  proper  precautions? 

Paul. 
I   did.     They  had   only  three  tar-barrels  early  this 
evening.     Where  they  got   the   fourth    from,   I   don't 
know. 

Brauer. 
I'll   wager   they   found   the    barrel   of    axle-grease! 
Why  didn't  you  lock  it  up? 

Paul. 
You  know  yourself,  on  this  day  no  lock  or  key  is  of 
any  avail. 

Brauer. 
Don't  talk  nonsense,  but  see  what's  to  be  done.     I 
will    be    there    myself,    presently.     Be    quick !      [Paul 
exits\     I  can't  depend  on  anybody  these  days  !    Where 
is  my  hat?     [Marie  ^^/"s  it\ 

Gertrude. 
Can't  we  go,  too,  papa  ? 

Brauer. 
Will  you  come,  wife? 

[86] 


THE  FIRES  OF  ST.  JOHN 

Mrs.   Brauer. 
Yes,  gladly,  but  stop  scolding.     There  isn't  a  breath 
of  air  stirring,  and  therefore  no  danger. 

Brauer. 
Come  along,  Pastor ! 

[Exii  Brauer,  George,  Gertrude  and  Mrs. 
Brauer.] 

Pastor. 
Won't  you  accompany  us,  Miss  Marie? 

Marie. 
No,  thank  you,  Pastor  ! 

Pastor. 
Then  may  I  remain  with  you  for  a  while? 

Several  Voices. 
[Outside,  calling-.]     Pastor,  Pastor  ! 

Pastor. 
[Speaks  through  door\     I    will    be    with   you    in    a 
moment !     [To  Marie.]     Well,  may  I ! 

Marie. 
Why,  certainly,  if  it  gives  you  pleasure ! 

Pastor. 
Pleasure  is  hardly  the  proper  word.     I  wanted   to 
thank  you  for   insisting  upon   my  writing  the   bridal- 
poem.     It  has  been  a  work  of  pleasure,  I  assure  you. 
Do  you  like  it?  .  .^ 

Marie. 
It  is  very  nice.  Pastor  ! 

Pastor. 
Have  you  memorized  it  already? 

Marie. 
I  think  so ! 

[87] 


THE  FIRES  OF  ST.  JOHN 

Pastor. 
Then  would  you  mind  reciting  it  for  me?     Come,  I 
will  assist  you :    **  The  flowers,  the  beautiful  blossoms  " 
Well? "are  a  maiden's " 

Marie. 
No,  Pastor ! 

Pastor. 
You  are  acting  so  strangely  to-day !     You   are   so 

shy  —  so 

Marie. 
The  St.  John's  night  oppresses  me  ! 

Pastor. 
That  will  soon  be  over. 

Marie. 
Would  that  it  were  over  now  ! 

Pastor. 
Perhaps  the  thought  of  traveling  alone  at  night  has 
something  to  do  with  it? 

Marie. 
Oh!      {Recovering  herself  —  lightly. \     You  are  right, 
Pastor ;   but  it  can't  be  helped  ! 

Pastor. 
Shall  I  come  with  you?  Oh,  I'll  find  something  to 
be  done  in  the  city.  I  won't  even  have  to  ask  permis- 
sion. Anyway,  I  am  longing  for  a  glimpse  of  the  good 
old  town.  I  will  inform  the  old  pastor  —  I  don't 
think  he  has  retired  as  yet 

Marie. 

Then    please    tell    him I    usually   visit    him 

myself  every  day,  but  now,  just  before  the  wedding,  it's 
impossible  for  me  to  call.     Will  you  please  tell  him 

188] 


THE  FIRES  OF  ST.  JOHN 

that  ?     I  am  so  fond  of  him !     Tell  him  that,  and  in 
thought  I  kiss  his  hand. 

Pastor. 

Certainly.     And  may  I  accompany  you  ! 

Marie. 
No,  thank  you.  Pastor  ! 

Pastor. 

Now  let  us  speak  openly,  Miss  Marie.     I  have  been 

watching  you  all  the  evening.     You  appear  to  me  — 

what  shall  I  call  it  —  like  a  mouse  before  a  cat!     You 

need  a  protector ;   some  one  in  whom  you  can  confide, 

some  one 

Marie. 
And  so  you  would  like  to  be  my  father  confessor ! 
Eh,  Pastor? 

Pastor. 
You  know  very  well  we  do  not  have  that  institution 
in  the   Protestant  Church,  though    at  times   it    might 
prove  a  blessing 

Marie. 
[MiscMevously.]     And  then  again  it  might  not? 

Pastor. 
You  are  quite  right.     We  should  all  rely  more  upon 

ourselves 

Marie. 
[Wii/i  emphasis^     I  do  that,  Pastor,  I  do ! 

Pastor. 
Yes,    my   dear   Marie  —  pardon    me,   I    should   not 
have  said  that  —  and  yet  I  must  speak  frankly  with 

you  ;  you  seem  to  have  a  fear  —  a  dread 

Marie. 
Of  the  cat  ? 

[89] 


THE  FIRES  OF  ST.  JOHN 

Pastor. 
I  wish  I  knew !  !  ! 

Marie. 
But  supposing  I  were  the  cat,  who  would  then  be  the 
mouse  ? 

Pastor. 
That  would  be  sinful  and  wicked  in  you  !  !  ! 

Marie. 
But  one  cannot  be  the  cat    and  the  mouse   at  the 
same  time? 

Pastor. 
Yes,  one  can !     But  he  who  does,  plays  with  his  own 
destruction ! 

Marie. 
And  if  one  destroys  one's  self,  who  cares? 

Pastor. 
You  should  not  talk  like  that.  Miss  Marie. 

Marie. 
Oh,  it  is  all  nonsense,  all  nonsense,  for  to-night  is 
St.  John's  night.     Do  you  see  that  fire  yonder.  Pastor? 
They  had  to  put  it  out !     But  there,  on  the  hill  —  look, 
there,  there  !     How  beautiful !     How  wild  ! 

Pastor. 
Yes,  and  when  you  look  closely,  it  is  nothing  more 
than  a  mass  of  dirty  lumber. 

Marie. 
For  shame.  Pastor ! 

Pastor. 
Like  everything  that  blazes,  except  the  sun 

Marie. 
You  should  not  have  said  that.  Pastor  —  you  should 
not.     I  don't  want  it !     I  will  not  have  you  slander  my 

[90] 


THE  FIRES  OF  ST.  JOHN 

St.  John's  fires !     I  want  to  enjoy  it  once  —  only  once  — 
then  nevermore ! ! ! 

Pastor. 
[Disturbed.]  My  dear  Miss  Marie,  I  do  not  under- 
stand the  reason  for  your  agitation,  and  I  will  not 
question  you  !  But  of  your  struggles  —  you  shall  know 
that  you  have  a  friend  near  you,  on  whom  you  can  rely, 
now  and  for  all  time  to  come.  Marie,  I  don't  know  how 
to  express  myself ;  but  I  desire  to  shield  and  protect 
you  all  your  life  —  I  will  worship  you 

Marie. 
Pastor,  do  you  know  who  and  what  I  am? 

Pastor. 
I  do! 

Marie. 
And  who  my  mother  is? 

Pastor. 
I  know  all ! 

Marie. 
Pastor,  how  am  I  to  understand  this? 

Pastor. 
Marie,  I  know  I  should  not  have  spoken,  at  least  not 
now.  I  should  have  waited  —  it  was  stupid  of  me,  I 
know;  but  I  have  such  a  fear  —  a  fear  for  you.  You 
are  going  to  the  city  to-night  and  I  don't  know  what 
may  happen  !  But  you  shall  know  before  you  go,  where 
you  belong  and  that  your  future  is  assured  ! 

Marie. 
{With  a  sigh  of  relief —  almost  a  sob\     Ah  —  ah  — 

ah ! 

Pastor. 
Marie,  I  do  not  want  an  answer  now.     Besides,  I  must 

[91] 


niiii 


THE  FIRES  OF  ST.  JOHN 

first  notify  my  father.     Though  he   is   but   a   simple 

farmer,  he  shall  not  be  slighted Marie 

Marie. 
\Shrtnking  —  dully  \     Yes,  that  is  —  perhaps  — what 
I  need  —  ah !    \Sinks  in  chair \ 

Pastor. 
Why,  what  is  the  matter?    Shall  I  get  you  a  glass  of 
water?     Or  would  you  prefer  wine? 

Marie. 
\With   an   effort \      Wine  —  wine — there  —  in   the 
bowl !      \He  helps  her  —  she   drinks.]      Thank   you  ! 
[Stirred.]     No  one  has  ever  waited  on  me  before ! 

Pastor. 

I  will  carry  you  upon  my  hands 

Marie. 
Very  well,  Pastor ;   but  no  one  must  know  before  the 
wedding ! 

Pastor. 
Perhaps  on  the  wedding  day  —  at  the  wedding  feast? 
Papa   might   make  the  announcement;  that  would  be 
such  a  fitting  occasion  ! 

Marie. 
{  No,  no  !    I  will  have  to  much  to  do  then. 

Pastor. 
Then,  when  the  happy  pair  have  gone  ?    / 

Marie. 
[With  sudden,  impulsive  decision.]     Yes,  when  they 
have  gone ! 

Pastor. 
[Takes  her  hand.]     Thank  you.  Miss  Marie. 

[  Voices  are  heard  outside.] 

[92] 


THE  FIRES  OF  ST.  JOHN 

Marie. 
Sh  —  [Withdrawing  her  hand.] 

Gertrude. 
[Enters.]     Ah,  here  you  are,  Pastor;  we  have  been 
looking  for  you  everywhere  ! 

Pastor. 
I  am  coming  now,  Miss  Gertrude. 

Gertrude. 
It's  too  late,  Pastor,  they  are  all  returning ! 

Pastor. 
Impossible  !    Well,  well,  how  the  time  passes,  and  one 
hardly  knows  how ! 

[Exit  Pastor.] 
Marie. 
[Embracing    Gertrude.]      Will    you    forgive    me, 
darling? 

Gertrude. 
[Timidly.]     I  have  nothing  to  forgive  ! 

Marie. 
Do  not  say  that !     I  have  done  everything  —  every- 
thing—  you  must 

[Enter  all.] 
Brauer. 
.Well,  my  dear  Pastor,  time  stands  still  for  no  one ;   so 
you  had  better  stop  excusing  yourself  and  empty  your 
glass.     'Twill  all  come  out  right  in  the  end. 

Pastor. 
I  think  I  had  better  go  now ;  for  here  every  one  is 
making  fun  of  me. 

Brauer. 
Pastor,  I  need  hardly  tell  you,  that  you  are  always 
welcome  in  this  house. 

[93] 


^j^mtatjgmmmmm^^ 


THE  FIRES  OF  ST.  JOHN 

Pastor. 
I  am  sure  of  it,  Mr.  Brauer !     If  I  did  not  think  so,  I 
would  not  take  that  matter  so  lightly 

Brauer. 
[jokingly  threatens  him  with  finger \     Pastor 

Pastor. 
\\Vith   a   happy  glance    at    MARIE.]      Good-night. 
\Shake5  hands  with  all\ 

Brauer. 
Goojd-night ! 

Pastor. 
Good-night,  Miss  Marie ! 

Marie. 
\Shaking  his  hand.]     Good-night,  Pastor ! 

[George,  with  a  questioning  glance ^  advances 
a  step  or  two.] 

Brauer. 
George,  see  the  Pastor  to  the  gate  ! 

George. 
[As  though  awakening.]     Yes,  uncle. 

[Both  exit.] 

Mrs.   Brauer. 

Well,  Henry,  everything  has  quieted  down ! 

Brauer. 
It's    about    time,   too !     Why,    its   eleven   o'clock ! 
Come,  let's  to  bed. 

Gertrude. 
Good-night,  papa ! 

Brauer. 
[Affectionately.]  Good-night,  my  pet ! 

Marie. 
Good-night ! 

[94] 


THE  FIRES  OF  ST.  JOHN 

Brauer. 
By  the  bye  —  when  will  you  be  back  ? 

Marie. 
To-morrow,  about  ten,  papa ! 

Brauer. 
Now  be  careful ;    no  unnecessary  exertions  —  under- 
stand ?  The  day  of  the  wedding  will  be  hard  enough  on 
all  of  us. 

Marie. 
Yes,  papa  dear !   [Kisses  Aim.] 

George. 
[Enters  at  this  moment.]     We  have  still  an  hour  and 
a  quarter  till  train  time.     I  will  wait  for  you  here,  Marie. 

Mrs.   Brauer. 
You  might  help  each  other  pass  away  the  time. 

Gertrude. 
I  want  to  sit  up,  too. 

Brauer. 
Tut,  tut,  ray  pet;  you  go  to  bed,  you  need  the  rest. 

Gertrude. 
[Whiningly .\     Well  then,  good-night. 

Marie. 

[In  silent  fear.]     I  can't  stay  here Mama,  I  want 

to  ask  you  about  something 

George. 
Then  you  will  come  down  in  time  for  the  train? 

Marie. 
Yes,  in  time  for  the  train. 

Mrs.  Brauer. 
Good-night,  George. 

[95] 


■a 


THE  FIRES  OF  ST.  JOHN 

George. 
Good-night,  auntie ! 

[Exti  Mrs.  Brauer,  Gertrude  and  Marie.] 

Brauer. 
You  know  where  my  cigars  are  ? 

George. 

Yes! 

Brauer. 
And  if  you  need  anything   to  keep  you  awake  —  I 

have  left  the  key 

George. 
[In  monosyllables  \     Thank  you  ! 

Brauer. 

Well,  what  in 

George. 

What's  the  matter >    Oh,  my  dear  uncle,  if  I  have 

failed  to  pay  you  the  necessary  respect,   I  beg   your 
pardon. 

Brauer, 
Respect?    Oh,  damn  you  and  your  respect ! 

George. 

Uncle 

Brauer. 
See  here,  perhaps  I  did  wrong? 

George. 
You  —  wrong  ?     How  ? 

Brauer. 
Have  you  forgotten  what  passed  between  us  yester- 
day? 

George. 

My  dear  uncle,  that  seems  to  me  so  far,  far  away ! 

[96] 


THE  FIRES  OF  ST.  JOHN 

Brauer. 
It  strikes  me  you  are  going  at  a  pretty  fast  gait ! 

George. 
At  any  rate,  uncle,  do  not  worry  about  it.     It  will  all 
come  out  right  in  the  end.     [As  he  is  listening  towards 
the  door,  gives  a  sudden  start.] 

Brauer. 
What's  the  matter? 

George. 
I  thought  I  heard  some  one 

Brauer. 
Some  one  of  the  family  perhaps,  upstairs.    Very  well, 
then  all  is  well,  my  boy !     Good-night,  my  son. 

George. 
Good-night,  uncle ! 

(Brauer  exits,  shaking  his  head.] 

George. 
[Sits  at  table  —  tries  to   read  —  listens,  goes  to  door 
C. — calls  out  softly  into  the  garden\     Who  is  there  ? 
[Still  softer.]     Is  that  you,  Marie? 

Gertrude. 
[Whining  outside \     It's  only  me  ! 

George. 
[Surprised.]     Gertrude,  what  do  you  want? 

Gertrude. 
[Gertrude  enters  in  nightgown  and  flowing  hair.]    I 
am  so  uneasy,  George  dear;  I  just  wanted  to  look  at 
you  once  more  before  going  to  sleep. 

George. 

But,  little  one,  if  papa  should  see  you  like  this 

Quick,  go  back  to  your  room. 

l97] 


_^ 


THE  FIRES  OF  ST.  JOHN 

Gertrude. 
I  cannot,  my  heart  is  so  heavy. 

George 
How  so,  dear? 

Gertrude. 
George,  I  have  been  thinking ;    I  really  am  not  good 
enough  to  be  your  wife. 

George. 
Wha  —  what  nonsense 

Gertrude. 
I   am  too  silly  —  oh,  yes ;   I  never  know  what  to  say 
to  you  !  I  am  so  stupid. 

George. 
Why,  my  child  —  darling  —  pet 

Gertrude. 
A  while  ago,  out  in  the  garden,  and  the  moon  shin- 
ing so   brightly,   you   walked    by    my   side   in   deep 
silence 

George. 
Why,  mama  was  with  us 

Gertrude. 
George,  it  is  yet  time.     If  you  love  some  one  else 

George. 
In  heaven's  name,  child,   have  you   ever   mentioned 
this  to  any  one  ? 

Gertrude. 
Only  to  papa ;    he  was  very  angry  and  scolded  me 
dreadfully. 

George. 
H'm !    Now  listen  to  me,  my  pet 

I98J 


THE  FIRES  OF  ST.  JOHN 

Gertrude. 
Rather  than  make  you  unhappy,  I  would  jump  into 

the  river 

George. 
In  the  first  place,  your  presence  here  in  this  condi- 
tion is  decidedly  improper 

Gertrude. 

But  we  are  to  be  married  in  three  days 

George, 
So  much  more  reason.     [Stroking  her  hair.]     What 
beautiful  hair  you  have,  dear ! 

Gertrude. 
[Happily.]     Do  you  like  it? 

George. 
And  in  the  second  place,  I  will  have  none  other  than 
you.     We  will  love  each   other  very  much.     At  first 
you  will  be  my  playmate  —  and  then  —  later,  perhaps  — 
my  real  mate.     Are  you  satisfied  ? 

Gertrude. 
Yes,  dear ! 

George. 
And  now,  you  must  go  to  bed ! 

Gertrude. 
Then  I  will  wrap  myself  in  my  hair  —  and  I   will 
dream  of  you  and  what  you  said  —  that  it  is  beautiful  — 
and  so  I  will  fall  asleep.     Good-night,  George  dear ! 

George. 
[Kisses  her  on  the  forehead]     Good-night ! 

[He  gloomily  takes  position  at  table  with  a  sigh 
when  Gertrude  exits^  covering  his  face 
with  his  hands.      Marie  enters  softly \ 

[99] 


/ 

/ 


THE  FIRES  OF  ST.  JOHN 

George. 
Marie,  you  have  come 

Marie. 
It  is  early  yet,  is  it  not? 

George. 
We  have  a  full   hour  more.     Have  they  all  gone  to 
bed? 

Marie. 
I  think  so.     All  the  lights  are  out. 

George. 
Come,  sit  here 

Marie. 
I  —  I  —  I  think  I  will  go  back  upstairs  ! 

George. 
No,  no ;    here  is  something  to  read  !     You  see,  I'm 
reading  myself. 

Marie. 
Very  well.     [Sits.]     But,  George,  I  would  really  pre- 
fer to  go  to  the  depot  alone. 

George. 
[5<7///y.]     Marie !      [Ske  shuts  her  eyes\     Are    you 
tired  ?     \She  shakes  her  head.]     One  whole  hour  I  will 
have  you  all  to  myself ! 

Marie. 

George 

George. 

Marie !  !  ! 

Marie. 
The  fires  have  all  gone  out,  I  suppose? 

George. 
Ah,  yes ;  a  small  pyre  of  wood  —  it  is  soon  burned 
down ! 

[lOO] 


THE  FIRES  OF  ST.  JOHN 

Marie. 
And  then  it's  as  dark  as  ever ! ! !     But,  George,  how 
beautifully  you   spoke   this   evening!      I   have   never 
heard  anything  like  it  before. 

George. 
You  were  the  only  one  who  understood  me. 

Marie. 
No  wonder!     It  was  as  though  I  spoke  the  words 

myself  —  that  is,  I  don't  mean  to  say 

George. 
What,  dear? 

Marie. 
Oh,  you  know ! 

George. 

But  I  don't  know ! 

Marie. 
[A/ier  a  pause.]     George,  I  have  something  to  con- 
fess to  you.     In  fact,  that  is  why  I  came  down  here  so 
soon.     You  shall  know  it,  you  alone.     I  have  this  day 

given  my  hand 

George. 
[With  a  siari.]     Marie!!!! 

Marie.    • 

\Astonished\     Well? 

George. 

To  whom? 

Marie. 
Why,  to  the  pastor !     Who  else  could  it  be?     There 

is  no  one  else  ! 

George. 

[Reproachfully]     Why  did  you  do  that?     Why  did 

you? 

[10.] 


THE  FIRES  OF  ST.  JOHN 

Marie. 
I  have  my  whole  life  before  me,  and  the  fires  \point- 

ing  to  fields  and  to  heart\  will  not  burn  forever 

George. 
\Bitterly\     You  should  not  have  done  it  —  you  — 

it  is  a  

Marie. 
Sh  —  not  so  loud  ! 

George. 
But  you  do  not  love  him  at  all ! ! ! ! 

Marie. 
How  do  you  know? 

George. 
\Bitterly\     How?      Of   course,    how   should    I?     I 
don't  know !     Pardon  me  !     Well,  I  congratulate  you  ! 

Marie. 
\Quietly\     Thank  you  ! 

George. 

But  why  am  I  the  first  one  to  be  taken  into  your 
confidence?     Why  not  uncle?     We  two  have  not  been 

so  intimate  as 

Marie. 

No,  we  two  have   not  been  very  intimate  —  I  only 

thought 

George. 

So,  then,  we  have  both  our  burden;  and  we  soon 
will  have  to  part.  Therefore  we  can  now  safely  speak 
of  the  past.  My  manuscript  you  read !  You  even 
went  so  far  as  to  perjure  yourself  on  account  of  it.  Oh, 
you  don't  mind  a  little  thing  like  that !  I  wish  I  were 
the  same !  You  know  the  subject  of  my  verses,  and 
we  must  now  understand  each  other  fully.     Now,  tell 

[102  J 


THE  FIRES  OF  ST.  JOHN 

me   openly,  why,  why  did  you  treat  me  so  unkindly,  to 
say  nothing  worse,  in  former  days  ? 

Marie. 
Did  I,  George? 

George. 
'Tis  hardly  necessary  to  remind  you  of  all  the  indig- 
nities you  heaped  upon  me.  It  almost  seemed  to  me 
as  if  you  purposely  intended  to  drive  me  mad.  Do 
you  remember  the  day  when  I  followed  you  into  the 
cellar,  and  you  turned  and  ran  out  and  locked  the  door, 
and  compelled  me  to  remain  there  all  night? 

Marie. 
\Sfniling^     Yes,  I  remember ! 

George. 
Why  did  you  do  that  ? 

Marie. 
That  is  very  simple.  You  are  Count  von  Harten  — 
and  I?  —  I  am  but  a  poor  Lithuanian  foundling —  aye, 
worse  than  that.  If  you  follow  such  a  one  into  the 
cellar,  she  knows,  or  at  least  thinks  she  knows,  your 
purpose. 

George. 
So,  that  was  the  reason !     And  at  the  same  time  you 
went  under  your  manzanillo-tree  to  die  ? 

Marie. 
[Nods] 

George. 
And  did  you  never  realize  the  real  state  of  things? 
Gertrude  was  then  still  a  child  —  and  because  I  could 
not  win  you,  I  took  her.     Did  that  thought  never  occur 
to  you? 

[I03l 


THE  FIRES  OF  ST.  JOHN 

Marie. 
How  could  I  ever  dare  to  think  that? 

George. 
But  later? 

Marie. 
The  day  before  yesterday,  when  I  read  your  book,  I 
felt  it  for  the  first  time. 

George. 

And  now,  it  is  too  late 

Marie. 
Yes,  now  it  is  too  late!     Had  I  felt  then  as  I  do 
now,  I  would  not  have  resisted  you 

George. 
Marie,  do  you  know  what  you  are  saying? 

Marie. 
[Breaking  out.]     Oh  I  don't  care,  I  don't  care  !    It  is 
my  fate.      You  must  rule  and  govern  —  and  I  —  I  must 
serve ;   and  in  the  end  —  we  both  must  die 

George. 
Marie,  you  should  be  loved,  you  must  be  loved  — 
beyond  all  senses  —  loved  beyond  all  measure ! 

Marie. 
{Pointing  towards  R.]     He  loves  me  ! 

George. 
He?  — Bah!!! 

Marie. 
Don't  be  angry,  George  dear ;    you  don't  dare  love 
me  yourself.     You  can  never  be  anything  to  me  I 

George. 
No,  never ;  for  this  house  must  be  kept  clean.     No, 
no,  this   house  must  not  be  soiled.     We  would  both 

[  104] 


THE  FIRES  OF  ST.  JOHN 

suffocate   in  our  shame.     But  we  can  think  of  what 
might  have  been;  that  is  not  sin,  is  it? 

Marie. 
What  were  your  words?  "  They  arc  the  wild  birds  of 
paradise,  that  hj^ve  escaped  us."     That  was  it,  was  it 
not?     How  beautiful ! 

George. 
I  don't  remember ! 

Marie. 
But  I  am  not  a  wild  bird,  George;    I  am  tame  —  so 

tame 

George. 

You  are  tame? 

Marie. 
For  you,  George  dear,  only  for  you  ! ! ! 

George. 
Marie  i  my  love !     [Strokes  her  hair  affectionally,  then 
moves  away.]     No,  no,  we  must  be  strong !     Only  a 
few   minutes  ago,    Gertrude    came    softly  down  those 

stairs ;  if  she  should  come  again  —  my  God ! 

Marie. 

What  did  she  want? 

George. 

You  can  imagine 

Marie. 
The  poor  thing !    But  you  will  love  her? 

George. 
As  well  as  possible !    But  then  I  must  not  think  of 

you. 

Marie. 

But  you  must  not  think  of  me  —  and  I  will  try  and 

not  think  of  you  ! 

[105] 


THE  FIRES  OF  ST.  JOHN 

George. 
Never,  Marie? 

Marie. 
Only  occasionally  —  on  holidays 

George. 
Only  then? 

Marie. 
And  on  St.  John's  eve 

George. 
When  the  fires  are  burning? 

Marie. 
Yes,  and  when  the  fires  are  out,  then  I  shall  cry 

George. 
Marie  !  ! ! ! 

Marie  . 
No,  no,  George,  sit  still  —  I  will  sit  here.     Some  one 
might  be  in  the  garden,  after  all. 

George. 
They  are  all  sound  asleep ! 

Marie. 
Even  so  !  We  must  be  brave ;   not  for  mine  —  but  for 
your  sake,  George. 

George. 
Why  did  you  say  that  ?     What  do  you  think  of  me  ? 

Marie. 
I  think  you  are  hard-hearted. 

George. 
And  yet  you  love  me  ? 

Marie. 
Yes,  I  love  you,  for  your  own  sake.     For  you  have  had 
to  struggle  and  fight  —  and  that  is  what  made  you  what 

[io6] 


THE  FIRES  OF  ST.  JOHN 

you  are.  I  have  also  fought  and  struggled ;  but  I  have 
lost  faith  in  myself  —  lost  faith  in  everything.  If  you 
only  knew ! !  Sometimes  I  am  afraid  of  myself  —  some- 
times I  would  commit  murder,  so  restless  and  without 
peace  I  am. 

George. 
With  me  you  would  have  found  peace.     We  would 
have  worked  together  and    planned  through  half  the 
nights  —  and  you  know  how  ambitious  I  am. 

Marie. 
And  so  am  I,  for  you  !     You  should  be  the  first  and 
greatest.     They  all  shall  bow  before  you  —  I  myself  will 
kneel  before  you  and  say  to  you :     "  You  love  to  rule 
and  command?     Now  rule  —  now  command  !!!!!!" 

\Throws  herself  before  him  —  her  arms  around 
his  knees,  looking  up\ 

George. 
Marie,  in  heaven's  name  rise !   If  any  one  should  see 

you  so 

Marie. 


Let  them  see  me 


George. 
Marie!! 

Marie. 
\Rising\     You  are  right.     It  was  low  in   me.     But 
he  who  originates  where  I  do,  is  low  —  so  low 

George. 
Don't  think  of  it,  Marie  !     Think  of  this  house   and 
all  the  love  it  has  given  you ! 

Marie. 
How  quiet  everything  is —  not  a  sound  to  be  heard  — 
as  silent  as  the  grave 

[107] 


THE  FIRES  OF  ST.  JOHN 

George. 
Then  be  content,  for  they  have  buried  us  together ! 

Marie. 
If  they  only  had ! 

George. 
And  see  the  pale  moon  —  how  it  throws  its  silvery 
rays  over  the  garden  —  and  yonder  is  your  manzanillo- 

tree. 

Marie. 

Yes,  yes,  do  you  see  it? 

George. 

And  its  white,  trembling  leaves ;  see,  see,  each   one 

seems  alive  —  though  not  a  breath  of  air  is  stirring. 

Come,  let  us  go  to  it. 

Marie. 

[Cowering-.]    No,  no,  I  think  it  is  time  —  we  must 

George. 

Sh!— Sh ! 

Marie. 

What  is  it? 

George. 

There  —  something   moved.     It   must  be    Gertrude. 
[Goes  to  door  C.  and  calls.]     "  Gertrude !  !  !" 

[Short  pause.] 
Marie. 

You  must  have  been  mistaken ! 

George. 

No,  no ;   I  saw  a  shadow.     "  Gertrude !  "     Remain 

here,  I'll  go  see  !  [Exit  into  garden] 

Marie. 

Oh,  I'm  so  afraid,  George  —  so  afraid ! 

[Pause.] 

[George   returns,  pale   and  agitated^  trying 

to  control  himself  \ 

[108] 


THE  FIRES  OF  ST.  JOHN 

Marie. 
Who  was  it?     Who  was  it? 

George. 
Oh,  no  one  —  no  one 

Marie. 

Yes,  there  was  —  I  can  see  it  in  your  face  ! !     Was  it 

Gertrude  ? 

George. 

No. 

Marie. 

Then  it  was  papa? 

George. 

No,  no. 

Marie. 

George,  you  are  as  pale  as  death;     What  has  hap- 
pened ?     Tell  me ! 

George. 
Nothing,    nothing!    There  was    a    stranger    in    the 
garden  —  I  sent  him  away. 

Marie. 
What  stranger? 

George. 
[Famed.]     Do  not  ask  me  ! 

Marie. 
[Duiljf.]        Oh,    I    know  —  I   know!     It  was  —  my 

mother 

George. 

Well,  since  you  have  said  it 

Marie. 
What  did  she  want?     But  why  do  I  ask?     [Covers 
her  face  with  her  hands.]     Oh,  my  God  —  my  God  !  !  I  ! 

George. 
Marie/ 

[109] 


THE  FIRES  OF  ST.  JOHN 

Marie. 
[Suddenly.]     Close   the   blinds  —  I    have    a   fear  — 
tight  —  so!!     Now  put  up  the  bars  —  so  —  and  here, 

so  —  so 

George. 
{Embracing  her]     Marie  I  my  darling  !  !  !  ! 

Marie. 
Hold  me  tight  I  !  ! 

George. 
Like  this? 

Marie. 
Yes,  like  that !      {She  moves  close  to  him.]      Here  I 
want  to  sit  still 

George. 
{Looks  at  watch]     If  we  only  have  time  to  catch 

that  train {The  whistle  of  a  locomotive  is  heard 

in  the  distance.     He  starts.]     Did  you  hear  that? 

Marie. 
{Smilingly.]     Yes !  *- 

George. 
What  was  it? 

Marie. 

It  was  the  train  ! 

George. 
Can  you  hekr  it  this  far? 

Marie. 
At  night  you  can  ! 

George. 
{Sinks  into  chair  L.  of  table,  back  to  audience] 
My  God  !  what  shall  we  do  now? 

[no] 


THE  FIRES  OF  ST.  JOHN 

Marie. 

[Softljf.]     I  will  tell  you  what  we  will  do !     We  will 

sit  still  here — quietly  —  till  the  next  train  —  till  four 

o'clock ! ! ! ! 

[Throws    herself   upon     George,  passionately 
kissing  him.] 

George. 
Marie  !     My  love,  my  all !      [Kisses  ker.] 

Marie. 
Kiss  me  again  !     Now,  then,  do  you  understand  me  ? 

I   am  my  own  master,  and  care  not  for  myself 

To-night  is  St.  John's  night !!!!!!! 

George. 

And  the  fires  are  burning  low 

Marie. 

No,  no ;  let  them  burn 

George. 
Yes,  yes ;  let  them  burn  —  they  shall  burn ! ! ! ! ! 

^  [Marie  disengages  herself. \ 

Marie. 
Kiss  me  no  more  —  let  me  kiss  you  —  I  will  take  all 
upon  myself  —  I  will  take  all  the  consequences  —  my 

mother  is  a  thief y  and  so  am  1 1     George 

[Throws  herself  into  his  arms  with  complete 
abandon^ 

[Lights  out.     Curtain.\ 


END    OF  THE   THIRD   ACT. 


[Ill] 


vaSSSSSBSS 


-■TB».W«.^.«1MMMJM«TPWr» ■^m||i«^.^|M«^»^■■^■^%all«^JJ■■JM^JJ.■»^^JS 


ACT  FOUR 

Same  setting.  Morning.  Centre  table  is  decorated 
with  flowers.  Brauer,  George  and  Gertrude 
are  on  veranda  at  rise  of  curtain,  hi  open  door, 
C.f  Mrs.  Brauer,  All  listening  to  quartet,  sing- 
ing, "  This  is  the  day  of  our  Lord"  by  Kreutzer. 
As  curtain  rises,  Katie  enters,  L.,  listens  also,  and 
dries  her  eyes.  At  the  end  of  the  serenade,  BrauER 
starts  to  make  an  address,  and  with  GEORGE  and 
Gertrude  leaves  the  veranda. 


Katie. 
Mrs.  Brauer,  I  would  like  to  spekk  to  you  a  moment. 

Mrs.  Brauer. 
[  Wiping  her  eyes.]     What  is  it,  Katie  ? 

Katie. 

[Sniveling.]     Oh,  I'm  so  happy 

[Church  bells  are  heard  softly  in  the  distance \ 
Mrs.   Brauer. 
There  go  the  church  bells.     Have  you  put  plenty  of 
wine  and  luncheon  in  the  arbor? 

Katie. 
Yes,  ma'am !     Miss  Marip  and  I  have  prepared  a  lot ! 

Mrs.  Brauer. 
What  did  you  want  to  see  me  about? 

[U2] 


THE  FIRES  OF  ST.  JOHN 

Katie. 
I  wanted  to  ask  you  about  the  roast ;   shall  we  put  it 
in  the   oven   now,   and   just  warm    it   up   for    dinner? 
Miss  Marie  thinks 

Mrs.   Brauer. 
Never   mind !      I'll   be    down   in    the    kitchen    in    a 
moment ! 

Katie. 
And  another  thing,  Mrs.  Brauer;  won't  you  please 
try  and  get  Miss  Marie  to  take  a  little  rest?  She  has 
been  hard  at  work  since  two  o'clock  this  morning,  and 
all  day  yesterday  she  was  in  the  city.  She  can't  stand 
it.    ^ 

Mrs.   Brauer. 
Oh,  on  a  day  like  this,  we  must  all  put  our  shoulders 

to  the  wheel. 

Katie. 

Ah,  Mrs.  Brauer,  you  and  I  are  old,  and  not  much 

good  for  anything  but  work;  but  we  must  spare  our 

young  people.     Why,  at  times  she  almost  gives  out. 

Mrs.  Brauer. 
Well,  I  will  come  and  see  for  myself. 

Katie. 
Thank   you  !  !  !      Oh,   such    a    day ! !  !      I    am   so 

happy [Ext'i  doiA  L.] 

Brauer. 
[EnUrs    with    GEORGE    and    GERTRUDE.]       Thank 
goodness,  that's  over.     Let  me  see :  first   it  was  the 
old   soldiers,  then  the  Turners,  and   now  the  Singing 

Society But  do  you  know,  I  am  so  sick  of  all 

this  wine  —  give  me  a  brandy. 

Gertrude. 
\Geis  drink  from  sideboard \     Yes,  papa! 

["31 


THE  FIRES  OF  ST.  JOHN 

Brauer. 
[To  George.]     And  what's  the  matter  with  you? 

George 
[  Wt'th  a  sigh\     Nothing  ! 

Brauer. 
[Imitating  Aim.]     Nothing !  !  !     I   can't  quite   make 
you  out Here,  have  a  drink? 

George. 
No,  thank  you  ! 

Brauer. 
Well,  then,  don't !     Your  health,  my  pet ! 

Gertrude. 
Drink  hearty,  papa ! 

Brauer. 
[Rises.]     The    carriage   will    arrive   here    sharply  at 
ten !     Understand  ? 

George. 
Yes ! 

Brauer. 
And  your  friend  from  the  city  —  we  will  find  him  at 
the  station? 

George. 
Yes ;  he  arrives  quarter  to  ten. 

Brauer. 
For   we  must  have  two  witnesses. —  Do  you   know 
what  I  would  like?     [Tapping  him  on  breast.]     I  would 
like  to  be  able  to  look  in  there. 

Gertrude. 
Oh,  let  him  alone,  papa !     He  is  now  my  George.     If 
I  am  satisfied  with  him 


THE  FIRES  OF  ST.  JOHN 

Brauer. 
You  are  right !     He  who  gets  my  child  can  laugh  — 
but  he  also  shall  laugh.     Understand?  \Exit  R\ 

Gertrude. 

Never  mind  him,  George  dear.     You  need  not  laugh 

if  you  don't  want  to.     Not  on  my  account.     [Be/Is.] 

Do   you    hear,    George?     The    church    bells,    ringing 

softly,  singing,  like  human  voices !  !  !  !     That  is  for  you 

and  me ! ! 

George. 

Why  for  us? 

Gertrude. 

It  is  the  old  pastor's  desire ;  half  an  hour  this  morn- 
ing, and  then  again  this  afternoon,  when  we  exchange 
rings.  Do  you  know,  George,  mama  says  a  bride's 
dream  the  night  before  her  wedding  is  surely  an  omen. 
Do  you  believe  that? 

George. 

[Preoccupied.]     Yes. 

Gertrude. 
I  dreamed  last  night  of  a  large,  yellow  wheat-field,  in 
which  a  poor  little  rabbit  had  hidden  itself ;  and  high 
above,  in  the  air,  I  saw  a  large  hawk.  Then  it  ap- 
peared to  me  that  I  was  the  little  rabbit,  and  in  fear 
and  dread  I  called  out  "  George !  George ! "  when 
suddenly  it  shot  down  upon  me! — just  think 

George. 

And  then? 

Gertrude. 

Then  I  awoke.  The  cold  perspiration  stood  thickly 
upon  my  brow Oh,  George  dear,  you  will  pro- 
tect me?  You  won't  let  any  one  hurt  me,  will  you? 
For  I  am  only  a  poor  little  rabbit,  after  all 

I>>sl 


Mi 


THE  FIRES  OF  ST.  JOHN 

George. 
[Staring^  before  Aim.]     My  God  ! 

Gertrude. 
George,  I  wanted  to  ask  you  something. 

George. 

Well? 

Gertrude. 

You  don't  love  some  one  else,  do  you? 

George. 

[Dtsiurbed.]     But,  my  child 

Gertrude. 
Well,  you  know  that  if  a  bride  cannot  laugh  on  her 

wedding  day,  she  loves  another 

George. 

Why,  nonsense 

Gertrude. 
[UnsAaken.]     Oh,    yes,    George;    I    read    it    myself. 
And  even  if  you  do,  George,  I  feel  so  —  my  love  for  you 
is  so  great,  it  could  move  mountains.     I  love  you  so 

dearly She  will  surely  learn  to  forget  you,  I  will 

love  you  so  much. 

George. 

But,  my  pet 

Gertrude. 

No,  no,   George.     You   see,   I   don't  blame  you   so 

much.     How  could  I?     For  what  am  I,  compared  to 

other   women? — George,   does  she  love  you   so  very 

much? 

George. 

Who? 

Gertrude. 

Oh,  you  know.     But  don't  worry,  George  dear;   she 

will  forget  you  in  time  !     Don't  you  remember  Robert, 

[ii6] 


THE  FIRES  OF  ST.  JOHN 

our  neighbor's  son?  He  threatened  to  kill  himself  if  I 
didn't  marry  him,  and  he  has  already  forgotten  me ! 
And  to-day,  when  we  stand  at  the  altar,  at  the  Doxol- 
ogy  and  the  exchange  of  rings,  I  will  nudge  you  softly, 
and  then  we  will  both  pray  to  our  good  Father  in 
heaven  to  make  it  easy  for  her ;  for  no  one  shall  be 
unhappy  on  this  day !  Why,  George,  you  are  cry- 
ing!!!  ! 

George. 
Crying  —  I? 

Gertrude. 
Why,  yes !     Here  are  two  large  tears  runnning  down 
your  cheek.     [Wipes  his  eyes  with  her  handkerchief^ 

So  there 

George. 
Tell  me,  my  pet ;   and  if  we  should  be  parted,  after 
all? 

Gertrude. 
How  could  that  be  possible  ? 

George. 

If  I  should  die  —  or 

Gertrude. 
[Embracing  him.]    No,  no  !     Don't  say  that !     Don't 
say  that ! !  ! 

[Marie  appears  in  door,  seeing  embrace.] 

George. 

[Startled^     Some  one  is  here 

Gertrude. 
It  is  only  Marie. 

Marie. 
[Pointedly.]     You  seem  to  be  particularly  affection- 
ate to-day. 

[117] 


THE  FIRES  OF  ST.  JOHN 

Gertrude. 
\Miffed\    We  always  love  each  other.      Oh,  perhaps 

that  doesn't  please  you 

Marie. 
It  is  nothing  to  me  ! 

Gertrude. 
\Half  Jesting. \     Besides,  what  do  you  want  here? 
Isn't  there  anything  to  do  in  the  kitchen  ? 

Marie. 
\Stung,   but   controlling  herself\      Mama   has    sent 

me 

Gertrude. 
Yes,  yes,  dear;    you  are  just  in   time  to  dress  my 
hair.     Have  you  hairpins? 

Marie. 

\Shaking  her  head\     I  will  get  some.     \Reels\ 

Gertrude. 

\Affectionately\     What's  the  matter,  dear  ?     Oh,  you 

must  be  tired ! 

Marie. 

I  am  not  tired. 

Gertrude. 

Yes,  yes,  you  are.     Now  you  sit  down  here.     I  will 
fetch  them  myself.  [Quick  exit.] 

Marie. 
[Full  of  fear  \     Gertrude  !  !  ! 

George. 
I  must  speak  with  you  ! 

Marie. 
Speak ;   I  am  listening. 

George. 
Why  this  tone  ?     Does  it  perhaps  mean  that  between 
us  all  is  over? 

[1.8] 


THE  FIRES  OF  ST.  JOHN 

Marie. 
If  it  is  or  is  not,  it  matters  little. 

George. 
Am  I,  then,  to  understand 

Marie. 
My  God  !   Have  you  not  Gertrude  ?     But  now  I  saw 
her  in  your  arms  !     What  do  you  want  with  me  ? 

George. 
I  must  speak  with  you 

Marie. 

Not  now 

Gertrude. 
[Re-enUrs.]     Here  are  the  hairpins.     [Marie  takes 
them\     I  have  also  brought  my  dressing-sacque  and 
combs.     Now   we  will  excuse  you   for  a  little  while, 
George  dear.     You  can  give  your  judgment  later. 

G  eorge. 
[With  a  glance  at  MARIE.]     May  I  not  remain? 

Gertrude. 
No,  no.     You   would    criticise   and   find   fault,   and 
embarrass  Marie,  and  me,  too.     Now  be  good,  George, 
and  go  into  the  garden.  [GEORGE  exits\ 

Marie. 
[Holding  sacque.]     Will  you  put  this  on? 

Gertrude. 
No,  I  will  put  it  around  me. 

Marie. 
As    you    please.      How    do    you    want    your    hair 
dressed,  high  or  low? 

Gertrude. 
But  Marie,  we  had  decided  upon  that !     Have  you 
forgotten  ? 

[ii9l 


THE  FIRES  OF  ST.  JOHN 

Marie. 
Oh,  pardon  me  —  I  —  of  course  we  had  ! 

Gertrude. 

Then  give  me  a  kiss  ! 

[Marie  suddenly  takes  her  head  in  both  hands 
and  stares  at  her.] 

Gertrude. 
[Frightened\     Why  do  you  look  at  me  so  strangely  ? 

Marie. 
{Embraces  her  fiercely]     My  darling !  !  ! ! 

Gertrude. 
Oh,  you  hurt  me  ! 

Marie. 

Perhaps  you  hurt  me,  too 

Gertrude. 
I  ?     How  so  ? 

Marie. 
[Has  begun  to  comb.]      How  can  you  ask?     You  are 
about  to  be  married  —  and  —  and  —  I  —  I  am  jealous 
of  you  ! 

Gertrude. 
Just  wait,  Marie,  dear.      [Sings] 

"  In  a  year,  in  a  year,  when  the  nightingale  comes " 

Marie. 
[Intensely.]     When  the  nightingale  comes? 

Gertrude. 
You  will  be  Pastor's  wife.      [Laughs.] 

[Marie,  with  one  braid  in  her  hand,  bending 
back,  laughing  loudly  and  forced] 

Gertrude. 

[In  pain]     Qh,  you  are  pulling  my  hair 

[120I 


THE  FIRES  OF  ST.  JOHN 

Marie. 
Any  one  as  happy  as  you  should  be  able  to  bear  a 
a  little  pain.     There  !     I  will  braid  it  into  your  hair  — 
for  you  are  happy,  are  you  not?     Very  happy? 

Gertrude, 
Yes  !      I  am  —  that   is  —  I  would  like  to   be  —  but 
George  —  he  is  so  sad. 

Marie. 
George? 

Gertrude. 
Yes! 

Marie, 
\Lurki7igly\     Perhaps  you  were  right !     Perhaps  he 
does  love  another ! 

Gertrude. 
\Softly  groaning.]     Oh,  why  did  you  say  that? 

Marie, 

Because No,  no  —  how  could  he  ?     That  was 

wicked    in    me,    wasn't  it?     How   could    he    think   of 
another,  when  he  looks  at  you? 

Gertrude, 
No,  no,  Marie,  you  are  right !     I  told  him  so  myself ! 

Marie. 
[Slow/y  and  marked.]     And  what  did  he  say  ? 

Gertrude. 
He  ?  —  He  said  nothing !     And  then  —  he  cried 

Marie, 
{Triumphantly \     He  cried?     George  cried?     Have 
you  ever  seen  him  do  that  before  ? 

Gertrude. 
No,  never ! 

[121] 


THE  FIRES  OF  ST.  JOHN 

Marie. 

[To  herself \     He  cried 

Gertrude. 

And  then  he  said  :     "  What  if  we  should  be  parted, 

after  all?" 

Marie. 

If  who  should  be  parted  —  you  and  he  ? 

Gertrude. 

Yes  —  if  he  should  die 

Marie. 
If  he  —  oh,  that  is  what  he  meant !     Oh,  well,  he  just 
wanted  to  say  something.     {With  forced  lightness] 

Gertrude. 
Of  course  he  did.     But  what  about  the  other  woman? 
Oh,  I  didn't  let  him  see  that  I  cared  —  and  for  the  time 
I  didn't  care,  really ;   but  now,  when  I  think  of  it !   My 
God  !—  if  it  were  really  so !     If  I  only  knew !!!!!!! 

Marie. 
Of  course,  he  would  not  tell  you  ! 

Gertrude. 
Do  you  think  he  would  tell  any  one  else? 

Marie. 

Yes,  sooner  than  tell  you. 

Gertrude. 

Yes !  I  suppose  so  ! 

Marie. 

Shall  I  ask  him? 

Gertrude. 

Oh,  if  you  would  do  that  for  me 

Marie. 
There  now,  it  is  done.     Here  is  the  comb  and  the 
rest  of  the  hairpins.     Now  go  ! 

[122] 


THE  FIRES  OF  ST.  JOHN 

Gertrude. 
And  do  you  really  think  he  would  tell  you  ? 

Marie. 
I  am  sure  he  will. 

Gertrude. 
Oh,  Marie,  how  grateful  I  shall  be  to  you 

Marie. 
[Pushes  her  out  of  the  door.]     Go  now,  go  !    [Stretches 

herself.]     Ah  —  ah  —  ah [Cal/s  softly \     George  ! 

[There  is  a  knock  at  the  door.]     Come  in  ! 

Paul. 
[Enters.]     Pardon  me,  Miss  Marie;   is  Mr.  Brauer  in? 

Marie. 
No,  Mr.  Paul ! 

Paul. 
The  assistant  pastor  would  like  to  speak  to  him  —  but 
here  he  is,  himself. 

Pastor. 
[Enters.]     Good-morning,  Miss  Marie  ! 

Marie. 
[Offers  her  hand  hesitatingly \     Good-morning ! 

Pastor. 
I  will  wait  here,  Mr.  Paul ! 

Paul. 
Then,  Miss  Mcrie,  will  you  please  give  me  the  key  to 
the  cellar?  I  want  to  put  the  beer  on  the  ice. 

Marie. 
[Gets  key  from  keyboard.]     Here  it  is. 

Paul. 

Thank  you ! 

[Exit.] 
[Pause.] 

,  |i23l 


THE  FIRES  OF  ST.  JOHN 

Pastor. 
And  have  you  nothing  to  say  to  me? 

Marie. 
What  shall  I  say,  Pastor? 

Pastor. 
Are  you  not  happy  this  day? 

Marie. 
[Hard]     No ! 

Pastor. 
Not  even  on  account  of  our  betrothal? 

Marie. 
We  will  have  no  betrothal,  Pastor ! 

Pastor. 

What  are  you  saying? 

Marie. 
I  shall  leave  this  place 

Pastor. 
Vou 

Marie. 
To-day,  I  leave  this  house  ! 

Pastor. 
Pardon   me,   if    I    have  forced    my   attentions    upon 
you 

Marie.  ^^ 

No  !  You  have  not ! 

Pastor. 
My  attentions  were  honorable,  I  assure  you 

Marie. 
Thank  you,  Pastor,  I  know  that ;   but 

Pastor. 
Then  it  is  not  on  my  account  you  are  leaving? 

[124] 


THE  FIRES  OF  ST.  JOHN 


Marie. 
Certainly  not! 

Pastor. 
Does  any  one  here  know  of  your  intention? 

Marie. 

No  one ! 

Pastor. 

Miss  Marie,  I  am  still  a  young  man;  if  I  should 
mention  such  a  word  as  "  life's  happiness,"  it  would,  per- 
haps, sound  absurd.  ^  Therefore,  I  will  not  speak  of  my- 
self. My  fate  is  in  my  own  hands.  But  if  you  realize 
this  moment  what  you  owe  to  this  house  —  and  I  say 
this  not  for  mine,  nor  for  their  sake,  I  say  it  for  yours 
and  yours  alone ;  though  I  am  but  a  poor  mortal  —  it 
pains  me  —  but  be  that  as  it  may  —  Marie,  if  you  cause 
a  discord  in  this  house,  the  blame  will  rest  upon  your- 
self. 

Marie. 

Perhaps ! 

Pastor. 

Pardon  me  —  I  will  not  question  you.  I  wish  to  know 
nothing ;  that,  in  the  end,  is  always  the  best.  Did  I  not 
love  you  as  well  as  myself,  I  would  not  speak  another 
word ;  but  as  matters  stand  now,  I  will  say  one  — aye,  one 
more  word  —  I  would  not  have  dared  to  say  otherwise. 
The  greatest,  the  highest  thing  one  possesses  in  this 
world,  is  his  life's  melody  —  a  certain  strain  that  ever 
vibrates,  that  his  soul  forever  sings  —  waking  or  dream- 
ing, loudly  or  softly,  internally  or  externally.  Others 
may  say :  "  His  temperament  or  his  character  is  so,  or 
so."  He  only  smiles,  for  he  knows  his  melody  and  he 
knows  it  alone.  You  see,  Miss  Marie,  my  life's  happi- 
ness you  have  destroyed,  but  my  life's  melody  you  can 

[125] 


THE  FIRES  OF  ST.  JOHN 

not  take  from  me.  That  is  pure  and  will  always  remain 
so.  And  now  I  say  to  you,  Miss  Marie,  if  you  fill  this 
house,  where  you  have  obtained  everything  you  possess — 
honor,  bread,  and  love  —  if  you  fill  this  house  with  sor- 
row —  if  you  dare  to  sin  against  your  father  and   your 

mother 

Marie. 

One  moment,  Pastor.     My  father  and  my  mother  — 

what  do  you  know  about  them?  My  father  I  don't  know 

myself,  but  my  mother?  Ah  yes,  I  know  her  well ;   and 

from  her  I  have  inherited  my  life's  melody.     This  melody 

has  a  beautiful  text.     Do  you  want  to  know  what  it  is. 

Pastor?     It  is,  "  Thou  shalt  steal.     Steal  everything  for 

thyself  —  thy   life's    happiness — thy    love — all  —  all. 

Only  others  will  enjoy  it  in  the  end."     Yes,  Pastor,  my 

mother  is  a  thief.      On  St.  John's  eve  she  came  stealthily 

over  yonder  garden    hedge;    and   as  my   mother,  so 

am  I !      And  now,  Pastor,  ask  me  no  more ;   I  need  all 

my  senses,  for  to-day  my  entire  happiness  is  at  stake ! 

There  —  now  you  know  all ! 

Pastor. 
Yes,  now  I  know !     Farewell,   Miss    Marie.     I  will 

forget  this  day,  perhaps ;  you  —  never 

\Exit\ 
Gertrude. 
\Enters  door  L\    Was  that  George,  who  just  now  left  ? 

Marie. 
Were  you  at  that  door,  listening? 

Gertrude. 
Marie!  —  For  shame  !  !  !  !  ! 

Marie. 
Now  go  and  dress  yourself ;   I  will  call  George.     Go 
now,  go ! 

[126] 


THE  FIRES  OF  ST.  JOHN 

Gertrude. 
And  will  you  come  and  tell  me  at  once? 

Marie. 
At  once !  Yes ! !  [Gertrude  exiis.]     [Marie  calling 
softly. \       George  !   George  ! 

George. 
[Enters from  veranda\     Are  you  alone? 

Marie. 

\Nods\ 

George. 

Have  you  arranged  it  so? 

Marie. 
You  wished  to  speak  to  me,  so  I  have  arranged  it ! 

George. 
Marie,  I  wished  to  tell  you.     One  hour  more  I  am  a 
free  man  —  and  my  mind  is  made  up.     It  is  yet  time  to 
change  our  fates.     What  will  you  answer  me  ? 

Marie. 
Answer  you  ?     Why,  I  don't  know  what  you  want. 

George. 
You  know  it  well  enough. '    I  want  you!     Do  you 
hear  me  ?      You,  who  belong  to  me  for  life  —  I  want  you  ! 

Marie. 
\Softly  —  happily \     I  thought  the  fires  were  out  — 
and  you  had  forgotten  me  —  and  now  you  want  me  ? 

George. 
[Softly.]     Are  you  not  mine?     Are  you  not  my  wife 
in  the  eyes  of  heaven? 

Marie, 
Yes,  but  in  the  eyes  of  the  world  it  is  Gertrude! 

George. 
Must  it,  then,  be  so? 


THE  FIRES  OF  ST.  JOHN 


Marie. 
[Doubftn£-/j'.]     Go  —  go  —  you  love  her 

George. 


Yes,  I  do  love  her.  How  could  I  help  that?  Do  you 
not  also  love  her? 

Marie. 

\Bitterly.\  Ah,  I  don't  know.  A  few  moments  ago, 
when  I  saw  her  in  your  arms  —  and  you  wept,  too  — 
only,  because  you   love   her !  !      Oh,   but   I   can  bear 

it !  !     I  will  bear  it  like  —  like  —  ah  ! But  there 

—  that  is  no  one's  affair  but  mine 

George. 
So,  so,  that  is  no  one's  affair  but  yours,  eh?     You 
might  have   invented   a    sweeter   torture.     I   meant  to 
remain   an   honorable   man  all   my  life;    if   unable  — 
well,  there  are  plenty  of  bullets  left. 

Marie. 
And  do  you  wish  to  die? 

George. 
I  do  not  want  to,  I  must ! 

Marie. 
George i  then  take  me  with  you  ?  [He  shakes  his  head\ 
For  years  I  have  carried  the  wish  in  my  heart  —  to  kill 
you  !      Then  I  would  kiss  and   love  you  Hke  mad  — 

and  then  follow  you  into  eternity 

George. 
Nonsense,  girl,  nonsense  !      Can't  you  see,  how  one 
turns  round  and  round  and  round  in  a  circle,  till  at  last 
to  find  no  other  escape  than  death  ? 

Marie. 
I  am  not  afraid  to  die ;  though  with  you,  I'd  rather 
live 

[128] 


THE  FIRES  OF  ST.  JOHN 

George. 
To  live,  dear,  will  require  more  courage  for  both  of  us. 

Marie. 
How  so? 

George. 
Can  you  ask?     Here  in  this  house,  to  which  we  owe 
everything  —  both  you  and  I?     Where    they  gave  us 
food,  shelter  and  love  ?     After  all  that,  would  you  have 
the  courage  to  destroy  their  happiness? 

Marie  . 
The  good  old  pastor  used  to  say :   "  You  must  have 
the  courage  to  do  everything,  except  to  do  wrong."     I 
would  even  have  the  courage  to  do  wrong. 

George. 
Shall  I  put  you  to  the  test  ? 

Marie. 
If  you  will  give  me  your  hand  now  and  say  to  me : 
"  Come,   we   will    run    away,  through   yonder   garden 
gate  —  just  as  we  are  —  now,  this  very  moment"  —  you 
shall  see  how  I  will  run ! 

George. 
What?  —  Secretly  —  without  telling  any  one?  Is  that 
what  you  mean? 

Marie. 
Don't  you  ? 

George. 
[Laughs  bitterly \     No,  no  ! 

Marie. 
Well,  what  then? 

George. 
Face  to  face,  like  a  man.     There  he  stands  —  I  here. 
If   he   will  give  me  back  my  word,  'tis   well.     If  he 
refuses  \determined\y  'tis  also  well. 

[129] 


THE  FIRES  OF  ST.  JOHN 

Marie. 
My  God  !     You  know  his  temper !     He  will  kill  us  — 
he  will  kill  us  both ! 

George, 

'Tis  death  either  way 

Marie. 

George  —  think 

George. 
Oh,  I  have  thought  of  it  for  two  days  and  two  nights. 
One  is  madness  and  the  other  insanity.     There  is  no 
other  way.     [Pained]     Only  the  thought  of  the  child 

gives  me  pain 

Marie. 

Of  course,  if  your  feelings  for  Gertrude 

George. 
Then    it   is   your  desire  ?     [She  nods  assent.]     Very 
well !     So  be  it !     But  remember,  it  is  a  question  of  life 
and    death !  —  And,   therefore,  you  yourself  must    bef 

present. 

Marie. 

[/«  terror.]     I  ?  —  I  be  present  when  you  ask  him  ? 

George. 
What? — ^You,  who  wish  to  become  my  helpmate  and 
partner   in    life,     and    share    all     my  life's    troubles  — 
you  would  desert  me  now — desert  me  in  this  hour?  — 
and  I  very  much  fear,  not  the  worst  in  store  for  us? 

Marie. 
No,  no,  George;  it's  not  that  —  not  that!     But  you 
know  how  we  have  feared  him  and  have  trembled  for 

years  —  and  now  I  should 

George. 
If  you  can't  even  do  that 

[130] 


THE  FIRES  OF  ST.  JOHN 

Marie. 
If  necessary  —  yes  I —  I  will  do  it. 

George. 
Then  —  as  soon  as  he   returns.     [Brauer  w   heard 
breathing  heavily \     Ah,  here  he  is  ! 

Brauer. 
[Enters.]     Why,  that  is  almost  an  old-time  Biblical 

miracle.     Just   think,  children,  think  of  it But 

where  is  Gertrude?     Well?     Can't  you  speak? 

Marie. 
[Trembling.]     I  think  she  is  dressing ! 

Brauer. 
Well,  it  will  interest  you  also,  so  listen :  I  met  the 
assistant  pastor  as  he  came  from  the  house  here,  and  he 
told  me,  rather  piqued,  that  our  good  old  pastor  had 
suddenly  risen  from  his  bed  and  limpingly  insisted  upon 
delivering  the  wedding  discourse  himself.  Well  — 
what's  the  matter?     Aren't  you  glad? 

George. 

H'm- 

Brauer. 
Of  course,  you  are  a  perfect  heathen !  But  I  say, 
our  assistant  pastor  must  have  been  terribly  put  out. 
He  had  been  preparing  for  that  same  address  for  days. 
He  looked  rather  crestfallen ;  but  then,  there  is  no  help 
for  it. 

George. 
Pardon  me,  uncle ;  in  order  to  save  time,  I  must  ask 
you  for  an  interview. 

Brauer. 
What,  again?     Can't  you  wait  till  afternoon? 

[■311 


THE  FIRES  OF  ST.  JOHN 

George. 
No !     Before  the  ceremony,  if  you  please. 

Brauer. 
[Startled]     Wha  —  oh,  I  see.     I  suppose  now  you 
will  demand  more  than  I  am  willing  to  give?     Marie, 
leave  us [Paul  enters. ]     Well,  what  now  ? 

Paul. 
[Gives  him  a  sign\ 

Brauer. 
There,   look   at   him !      Well,  have   you   lost   your 
tongue,  man?     Why  don't  you  speak? 

Paul. 
No,  no,  Mr.  Brauer,  I  have  something  to  say  to  you  — 
alone. 

Brauer. 
Then  why  don't  you  come  nearer? 

Paul. 
\Whispering\     We  have   just   now  caught   the  old 
woman. 

Brauer. 
\With   a  glance  at   MARIE.]  .    What?      Marie,   you 
may  remain  and  chat  with  George  for  awhile ;   he   is  a 
very  interesting  young  man.    [Softly^  to  Paul.]  Where  ? 

Paul. 
Down  in  the  cellar ;  just  as  I  wanted  to  put  the  beer 
on  the  ice,  I  found  her  there  in  a  dark  corner,  loaded 
down  with  plunder ! 

Brauer. 
Is  she  there  now? 

Paul. 
Yes,  struggling  like  a  demon. 

[132] 


THE  FIRES  OF  ST.  JOHN 

Brauer. 
Undoubtedly  this  offense  will  earn  her  a  good  long 
term  in   prison   and  we  will  be  rid  of  her  for  a  long 
time  !     But  how  to  get  her  out  of  the  house  ? 

Paul. 
Leave  that  to  me  Mr.  Brauer ;   I  know  a  way  to  keep 
her  quiet. 

Brauer. 
Yes,  yes,  and  in  the  meantime   I  will  make   out  the 
papers  and  we  will  hand   her  over  to  the  Gendarme ; 
that  will  be  the  best.     Children,  I  will  be  busy  for  a 
moment !     Wait  here  until  I  return. 

George. 
Don't  forget,  uncle ! 

Brauer. 
No,  no.     I'll  be  back  in  a  moment.     Come,  Mr.  Paul ! 

{Both  extt\ 
George. 

You  are  trembling 

Marie. 
Am  I? 

George. 
Marie  dear,  I  am  with  you.     No  one  shall  harm  you  ! 

Marie. 
Oh,  it  is  not  that. 

George. 
What,  then? 

Marie. 
Oh,  I  don't  know.     It  has  suddenly  come  over  me 

so [S/^r/j.]     Sh !     He's  coming ! 

\Noise.     Scuffling  of  feet  and  smothered  cries 
are  heard.\ 

[i33l 


THE  FIRES  OF  ST.  JOHN 

George. 
What  is  it? 

Marie. 
In  God's  name,  be  still ! 

Gypsy. 
\Calling  for  help\     Mine  daughter  !     Mine  Mamie  ! 
My  Mamie !  ! 

Marie. 
Hear?     Hear?     My  mother!     They  are  taking  her 
away  —  to  prison  !     Sh  !    Be  still !     No,  no ;  don't  open 
the  door  !     Be  quiet !     Be  quiet ! 

Gypsy. 
\Not  as  loud  as  before.]     Oh,  mine  daughter !     My 

Mamie  —  my  Mamie !  [Dying  out\ 

George. 
Will  you  not  go  out  to  her,  no  matter  what  she  has 
done? 

Marie. 
How  can  I  ?     How  can  I  ?     I  am  afraid  —  afraid 

George. 
Then  shall  I  go? 

Marie. 
[Frightened^  No,  no  ;  don't  leave  me  !  !  Sh  !  Be 
quiet !  So,  quiet !  Now  they  have  gone !  Thank 
heaven!  [Again  wailing,  but  very  distant^  Hear? 
Hear?  Let  her  shriek  !  Let  her  call !  I  cannot  help 
her!  I  am  a  thief,  the  same  as  she.  I,  too,  have 
come  to  this  house,  and  I  have  stolen.  But  oh,  my 
God,  what  have  I  stolen?     What  have  I  stolen? 

George. 
Come,  Marie,  control  yourself !     Think  of  what  we 
have  before  us ! 

[134] 


THE  FIRES  OF  ST.  JOHN 

Marie. 
Yes,  yes  —  I'll  be  quiet!     What  have  we  before  us? 

No,  no ;   I  will  not  —  I  cannot  —  I 

George. 

Do  you  mean  to 

Brauer. 
[In  door.]     Did  you  hear  anything,  children?     Any 
noise  ? 

George, 
We  heard  screams  and   a   scuffle.     What   was   the 
matter? 

Brauer. 
Oh,   nothing  of    any  consequence.     Don't  mind    it. 
An  old  vagabond  of  a  woman,  that's  all.     I  have  only 
to  sign  the  papers  now,  then  I'll  be  back.  [Exit.] 

George. 
Marie/ 

Marie. 
Hush,  not  a  word,  not  a  word  !     She  out  there  must 
go  her  way,  and  I  must  go  mine ! 

George. 
What  do  you  mean  ? 

Marie. 
You  said  it  yourself.     'Tis  madness  !     Yes,  yes ;   'tis 
madness  !    All —  all!   What  we  do  —  what  we  desire  — 
all  — all! 

George. 
Marie ! 

Marie. 
Or  do  you  imagine  for  one  moment  we  could  be 
happy  together?     No,  I  know  you  too  well.     I  know 
the  certain  result.     You  would  never  forgive  yourself 

[>35] 


THE  FIRES  OF  ST.  JOHN 

nor  me,  and  in  the  end  life  would  become  a  burden  to 
me,  if  only  because  I  was  in  your  way.  Yes,  yes,  that 
would  be  the  end  of  it  all 

George. 
Marie,   I  will   be  faithful  to  you   forever,   let  come 
what  may,  be  it  good  or  bad ;   you  know  that ! 

Marie. 
Yes,  thank  God  !  —  yes ! 

George. 
If  there  was  only  the  slightest  possibility  of  a  chance 
to  escape  from  all  this  whirl  —  then  we  might  be  free, 
we  might But  no  matter  what  we  begin,  we  can- 
not shake  off  nor  disregard  our  obligations  to  this 
house ;   never,  as  long  as  we  live ! 

Marie. 
Therefore,  what  more  can  you  desire  ?  Everything 
on  earth  we  possess,  all  that  was  beautiful,  all  the  love, 
all — all,  we  gave  to  each  other.  There  is  nothing 
more  to  give,  for  either  one  of  us.  St.  John's  night  is 
past,  the  fires  are  out,  are  dead 

George. 
And  what  shall  become  of  us? 

Marie. 
Of  you?  That  I  can't  tell.  Perhaps  you  will  be 
happy,  perhaps  not;  that  must  all  rest  with  yourself. 
And  I?  Oh,  be  content.  I  will  take  care  of  myself. 
As  soon  as  possible  I  shall  leave  this  house.  Not 
to-day,  as  I  would  like  —  it  might  create  suspicion 

George. 
And  where  will  you  go  ? 

[136] 


THE  FIRES  OF  ST.  JOHN 

Marie. 
Ah,  the  world  is  large.     I  shall  go  far,  far  away, 
where  no  one  will  ever  find  me.     No,  no,  not  even  you, 
George. 

George. 
And  if  you  should  go  to  ruin  out  there  ? 

Marie. 
Do  not  fear.  I  am  the  calamity  child,  the  found- 
ling. My  hands  are  hard  and  callous  —  see,  see !  Just 
like  my  heart  is,  now.  I  will  work  and  work,  and  toil, 
until  I  fall  exhausted  —  then  I  will  sleep  and  rest,  until 
it  is  time  for  work  again ;  and  thus  I  will  perhaps  main- 
tain a  miserable  existence. 

George. 
You  say  you  are  a  calamity  child  !  Well,  so  am  I. 
But  our  accounts  do  not  harmonize.  You  are  going 
out  into  the  world  and  misery,  and  it  was  I  who  drove 
you  to  it.  Even  did  I  not  love  you  as  I  do,  that 
thought  would  follow  me  forever  and  embitter  my 
entire  life.  But,  be  it  so.  We  are  both  children  of 
misery !  Therefore  let  us  grit  our  teeth,  shake  each 
other  by  the  hand  —  and  say  farewell  I 

Marie. 
[So/ilf.]  Good-bye,  Georgie  dear — and  — don't  be 
afraid  —  he  is  not  yet  coming  —  and  forgive  me  —  do 
you  hear?  From  to-day — you  understand?  Did  I 
not  love  you  as  much  as  I  do,  this  would  not  have  been 
quite  so  hard ;  but  there  —  there  —  'tis  all  right  now  —  I 
know ;  I  can  never  be  entirely  poor  now ;  for  once,  at 
least,  the  fires  of  St.  John  have  burned  for  me  —  once  — 
just  once 

I>37] 


THE  FIRES  OF  ST.  JOHN 

George. 
Marie 

Marie. 
[Glancing'  around.]     Don't  —  don't 

Mrs.   Brauer. 
[EnUrs,  followed  bf  Gertrude.]    Hasn't  the  carriage 
arrived  yet,  children?     And  where  is  papa?     It  is  time 
to  go. 

Marie. 
He  is  coming  now,  I  believe, 

Brauer. 
[Enters.]     So  there,  I  am  ready  to  go  !     But,  that  is, 
you  wanted  to  speak  to  me  first? 

George. 
\Witk  a  glance  at  Marie.]     It   is  all   settled    now, 
thank  you. 

Brauer. 
Then  come,  wife,  my  coat,  quick ! 

\She  helps  him  with  frocks  after  he  has  divested 
himself  of  jacket \ 

Gertrude. 
{Aside  to  Marie.]     Did  you  ask  him  ? 

Marie. 
[Nods] 

Gertrude. 
And  what  did  he  say? 

Marie. 
It  was  all  nonsense,  my  pet.     He  loves  you  and  only 
you.     He  never  has  loved  any  one  else  —  he  says  — 
and  he  will  be  very  happy  —  so  he  says 

Gertrude. 
[Embraces  him  joyfully.]     My  darling  George 

[■38] 


THE  FIRES  OF  ST.  JOHN 

Brauer. 
Come,  come,  my  child  —  time  enough  for  that  after 
the  ceremony.     Come ! 

[A /I  follow  him  to  the  door.  When  George 
reaches  door  he  turns,  and  as  he  takes  one 
parting  glance  at  Marie,  Brauer  pushes 
him  off.  Marie  stands  motionless,  looking 
after  them,  handkerchief  in  mouth,  nervously 
forcing  it  between  her  teeth.] 

[Curtain.] 


END   OF  PLAY. 


I 


[139) 


